


Wine and Flowers

by magisterpavus



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 01:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 84,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6403321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Regent's attempt to assassinate Laurent succeeds - but it isn't an assassination attempt at all. </p><p>There are two captive princes now, and this time, they're being sent far, far away to an island empire called Artes which is more familiar - and dangerous - than either of them anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Akrasia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _AKRASIA: the state of mind in which someone acts against their better judgment through weakness of will._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had this little idea floating around my head for a while and finally got around to giving it an actual plot. This is my first Captive Prince fic, so here's to trying new things. Thank you for giving it a chance!
> 
> (All chapter titles will correspond to either Greek or French words; Greek titles are Damen's POV and French are Laurent's. All these words/phrases correspond to what happens in the chapter, so have fun reading & getting a vocab lesson.)

_"All gods who receive homage are cruel. All gods dispense suffering without reason. Otherwise they would not be worshipped. Through indiscriminate suffering men know fear and fear is the most divine emotion. It is the stones for altars and the beginning of wisdom. Half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. Real gods require blood.”  
\- Zora Neale Hurston_

At first, there had only been three men.

Damen could have taken three men. But the Regent was apparently just as cunning as his nephew when he wanted to be, because when Damen broke free and one of the men cried, “ _He’s the Prince’s bitch! Kill him,_ ” the reinforcements came swarming into Laurent’s chambers like rats. Heavily armed and well-trained rats.

Damen had no love for Laurent. He didn’t know why he defended him. Perhaps because Laurent was unarmed and apparently drunk, or perhaps because Damen could empathize wholeheartedly with this situation. He had been taken from Ios in much the same way. But he didn’t know what they planned to do with Laurent now. All he knew was that the two of them couldn’t take on a dozen men in full armor.

So it wasn’t a surprise when Damen eventually fell, shoved to his knees roughly, but when Laurent fell beside him in a heap of golden hair and pale limbs it seemed strangely surreal. Up close, Damen could see how drunk Laurent actually was, his eyes half-lidded and his chest rising and falling shallowly. No – not drunk, he realized. Damen could smell the familiar, syrupy scent of a drug on his breath – an Akielon drug used on pleasure slaves.

Suddenly the tight circle of guards around them took on a very different meaning. Damen tensed, watching them with narrowed eyes, instinctively angling his body towards Laurent’s. Damen might have hated him, but he wasn’t exactly keen to let these men have their way with Laurent. Not even the ice prince deserved that.

“Should’ve cooperated, brute,” one of the guards told Damen, kicking his side as one might kick a dog. “Would’ve gone much better for you.”

“Too late now,” another said. He nudged Laurent’s shoulder with his boot, leaving a dark smudge on the soft white fabric of his shirt. “The Regent is waiting. Get them out of here.”

*

The halls were dark and empty as the guards escorted them through the palace. It was clear that this had all been orchestrated well ahead of time, perhaps even before Damen arrived. The guards had bound their wrists, and their grips were bruising on Damen’s arms and shoulders. He walked, grudgingly obedient as he had been in the past, but beside him Laurent was having more difficulty.

If he had been sober, Damen had no doubt he would be struggling, but as it was he could barely walk. Damen’s gut twisted slightly at seeing him this way – he’d always longed to break Laurent’s cool composure, but not like this. Even now, he could see Laurent was fighting the effects of the drug, stumbling and trying to keep his head upright; blinking frantically in some fruitless attempt to dispel the haziness from his gaze.

This whole situation was confusing to some extent, but Damen’s bewilderment reached a fever pitch when the guards led them not to the throne room nor the Regent’s chambers but to the dungeons. Laurent tripped on the cold stone steps and one of the guards jerked him upright. Damen’s bound fists clenched. His trepidation grew as they reached the bottom of the stairs only to find the Regent waiting for them with two other guards, all dressed in their bright sunburst livery.

The Regent stood in front of a waiting cell, his face a mask of false sympathy. Damen couldn’t believe he’d ever respected the man. In some ways, he was an even more venomous snake than Laurent. “What a shame,” the Regent said to Damen, hands clasped. “I had hoped you might see reason. But maybe it is better this way. This way, you can keep an eye on my nephew for me.”

At the sound of the Regent’s voice, Laurent visibly flinched back, the chains on his wrists clanking stridently. Damen glanced at him, brows furrowed, then back at the Regent. “What are you doing? What is this?” he asked.

One of the guards shoved him. “Shut your mouth, slave.” But the Regent raised a hand calmly, mouth curving into a serene smile.

“Ah, forgive me if I prefer to keep some secrets. But I think it will be a very familiar experience for you. Perhaps you can guide Laurent through it – I’m not certain my nephew will take to it as easily as you have.”

Damen froze in terrible understanding. Next to him, Laurent’s ragged breathing quickened. “No –” he started, but the guard shoved him again, and this time the Regent did not stop him. Damen found himself manhandled into the cell, with Laurent tossed in after him like a ragdoll.

“Drug the slave as well,” the Regent said over his shoulder as he strode away from the cell and the guards and the crime he had just committed. “At dawn, sedate them both and bring them to the west wing; there will be a transport waiting. Heavy doses. I don’t want either of them lucid until they’re on the ship.”

_The ship?!_

But then the Regent was gone, and Damen was left with Laurent and two of the guards, one of which held a goblet with a rim coated in the sticky pink powder than confirmed Damen’s earlier theory. He’d taken the drug once, as a teenager, and deeply regretted it. He’d been embarrassingly virile for hours and had gone through three partners with ease. That had been a small dose. This was probably even more than they’d given Laurent, which was still too much.

“Don’t,” Damen said, backing away, but he knew it was useless. “Stop –”

The guard with the goblet rolled his eyes. “Why’re you scared? You’re not the one who’s gonna be taking it.” His gaze flicked purposefully to Laurent, still splayed on the floor, in case Damen somehow missed his meaning. Damen thought he was going to be sick.

“You’re going to regret this,” he warned as the goblet neared his lips. It was an idle threat, and everyone present knew it. Another guard came in, joining the first to hold him against the wall. He shifted hard against them but it was no use. It was like being in the garden with Ancel all over again, chained to the metalwork of the bower, utterly unable to stop what was about to be done to him. The liquid they poured down his throat was wine, but with a definite aftertaste, tart and sweet at the same time, bitter once he’d choked it all down.

Laurent, on the floor, was watching him, and Damen could feel the tension in his body from across the cell. Not that it was a very large cell at all, and when the three guards left it seemed even smaller. He realized, vaguely, that they’d freed his wrists. But not Laurent’s. No, they left Laurent bound and helpless. Again, he was overcome with a wave of disgust, and slowly eased himself to the ground, being careful not to let his healing back slide against the rough wall.

He was even more careful not to meet Laurent’s accusatory gaze. He could already feel the heavy, insistent warmth settling in his belly and he was determined to ignore it, and Laurent.

Laurent, however, seemed to have other plans. Out of the corner of his eye, Damen saw him push himself up into a sitting position with difficulty. “You may as well get on with it,” Laurent snapped, his words slurring a little. “We’ve already established that my voice has broken, haven’t we?”

The scars on Damen’s back twinged. He frowned at a dark stain on the stone and said nothing.

Laurent scoffed. “Don’t act like you’ve never done it before.” He paused, the silence weighted. “Or haven’t you? Oh, will I be your first? How sweet.”

Damen did look at him then, briefly, his jaw set. “I don’t rape,” he said flatly.

Laurent laughed, a breathy and mocking sound. “Of course, I forgot – you’re Kastor’s honorable barbarian. You’re in this mess because you stuck your cock in all the wrong places – no wonder you’d be loath to do it again.”

Damen blinked. Laurent was even closer to him than before. And though his words were scathing as ever, there was more than a hint of desperation in his voice. “Are you…are you trying to goad me into this?” Damen asked incredulously.

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “Goad you? I think that’s hardly necessary, seeing as how you have so little self-control that you –”

“Oh, no,” Damen murmured, and this time he was the one who moved, his shadow falling over Laurent completely. “No, I’m not the one begging right now, am I?”

Laurent’s mouth thinned, eyes narrowing dangerously. “I am _not_ begging,” he gritted out. “I’m simply preparing for the inevitable. If you were truly honorable, barbarian, you would stop drawing this out painfully and just do what you’ve been dying to do to me for weeks –”

Damen had him up against the wall in two seconds flat. Laurent gasped when his back hit the stone, the air knocked out of him, his eyes wide when Damen’s body pressed against his. Damen was unsurprised to feel that Laurent was achingly hard, his head tilting back involuntarily when Damen’s thigh slid between his legs. He was hardly in a position to escape, trussed up as he was, but it was still unsettling how obedient he was, practically putty in Damen’s hands. After a few seconds of this, Laurent managed to school his features, eyes returning to cold and cutting, lips curling in a sneer.

“Has it been so long you’ve forgotten how?” Laurent hissed. “Stupid brute.” His body was contrary to his words, hips rocking slightly against Damen’s leg and against Damen’s own arousal, which Damen was disregarding as much as possible. It was difficult, with Laurent arching up into him and panting like a whore, but he had only to think of the sting of the whip and the promise of murder in Laurent’s eyes for his own desire to quite quickly sputter out.

Damen held Laurent still. “Stop,” he said sharply. “You’re not in your right mind.”

“Oh, really?” Laurent said. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Damen glared. “And even if you were, I don’t make a habit of sticking my cock in vipers.”

Laurent glared right back. “And I don’t make a habit of getting kidnapped and drugged, yet here we are.” His voice shook, and under Damen’s palms, his hips did too. His skin was disturbingly hot, emanating warmth like he had a high fever; his pulse leaping and pounding in the marble column of his throat. Damen, for a moment, wondered if one could overdose on the drug, and what would happen if they did.

As it was, he was impressed that Laurent still managed this level of control. Damen had heard tales of higher doses leading to wild abandonment, and though Laurent was clearly aroused to the point of pain, he was hardly abandoned. When Damen’s hand landed high on Laurent’s thigh, he made a sound low in his throat and let his head loll against the wall. Tendons stood out in his neck; he was still holding himself back.

“You don’t actually want me to do this,” Damen muttered, searching Laurent’s sullen expression.

Laurent’s answering laugh sounded choked this time; the drug was taking full effect. Color was high in his cheeks, and he kept licking his lips, until they were soft and smooth and shiny and Damen had to look away. “I…” Laurent was breathing hard. “I just want…” He ducked his head, but instead of moving back he lurched awkwardly forward and then his face was nestled up against Damen’s bare shoulder, his breath uneven and hot on the side of Damen’s neck. “Touch me,” he said, barely audible. The chains on his wrists rattled.

Damen recoiled at the sound and the contact. Laurent’s hair hung in his flushed face, his chest heaving and his entire body shaking. He looked like he was on the verge of snapping; of begging for real, of dropping to his knees and pleading in his broken voice for Damen to touch him. It might be satisfying to see the ice prince as the one kneeling for once, but there was something terribly wrong with Laurent – it was as if the drug had replaced the coldhearted serpent with a completely different person.

Laurent looked so much younger when he had tears in his eyes.

Tomorrow, Laurent was going to kill him, slowly and painfully. But for now, Damen decided he’d rather do what Laurent asked than watch him break down and cry like a helpless child. So he reached out to him again, and Laurent went easily with a gasp of relief, perfectly pliant as Damen cautiously slipped a hand down the front of his pants, still half-expecting Laurent to hit him.

Laurent did not hit him. Instead, he moaned, loud and wanton, hips hitching forward greedily. Damen heard one of the guards whistle and tightened his grip, Laurent’s cock sliding easily in his hand, already slick and dripping at the head. Damen held him more firmly against the wall to steady them both, since Laurent’s knees were looking increasingly weak, but it had the unintended effect of pressing his own hips against Laurent’s. A sudden wave of heat pulsed through him, dizzying in its intensity, but he bit his tongue and ignored it, even as Laurent writhed eagerly against him. The bottom of his white shirt rode up, exposing whiter skin, covered in a thin sheen of sweat that only made it more beautiful.

Damen was unexpectedly struck by the memory of Laurent in the baths, of his smooth, lithe body, slender but strong; of how unaffected he’d been by Damen’s close proximity and the hot water, of how furious he had been when Damen grabbed his wrist.

No. Not just furious, Damen realized. Afraid. In that moment, Laurent of Vere had been deeply, terribly, afraid. Of Damen taking advantage of him? Maybe. But Damen had a feeling it was more about control. Laurent, above all else, feared losing control.

And there he was; a delirious, moaning, utterly uncontrolled mess in Damen’s arms.

Yes, Laurent was surely going to kill him.

But right now, Laurent was going to come, his staccato breaths fluttering against Damen’s other hand, which was cupping his face. His eyes were sapphire slits, golden lashes lying soft against his cheeks, hair a tangled mess of yellow corn silk. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but there was nothing to say, and when he came it was with a shudder all over and a press of his lips against the gold cuff on Damen’s wrist as he turned his face away.

Damen wiped his hand on the stones and went to fasten Laurent’s pants, but Laurent had turned so that his back was facing Damen, arms braced on the wall and head tilted back over his shoulder. Some of the sharpness had returned to his eyes, and when he spoke again it was closer to his usual drawl. That just made his words all the more jarring. “Get on with it,” Laurent repeated, gaze darting down briefly to Damen’s cock, heavy under his slave garments. His eyes looked like they had in the baths; alight with an arctic blue glare. Angry. But also afraid.

Damen stared at him, speechless. Laurent stared back coolly for a few seconds, then turned his face back to the wall, hips pushing back slightly towards Damen. Damen stepped forward. He put his hands on Laurent’s shoulders, feeling the tension of his body, strung tight as a bowstring. Then he turned Laurent back around, so they were face to face again.

Laurent’s brow lowered and he jerked his head away. “No,” he snapped, genuinely distressed. “I can’t – I won’t look at you while you –”

“Go to sleep, Laurent,” Damen said quietly, stepping back.

Laurent faltered. “I…what?”

“I’m not fucking you,” Damen reiterated. “Go to sleep. It should be easier to ignore, now.”

Laurent blinked at him like he was speaking gibberish. It was Veretian, so close enough, but Damen was not in the mood for arguing with him any longer. He padded over to the opposite side of the cell, settling down in the corner and closing his eyes. Damen could hear Laurent’s breathing, a soft curse, and then a rustle of fabric as he slid down the wall.

“Goodnight, Your Majesty,” Damen said.

He was met by stony silence. Damen smiled slightly to himself. The old Laurent was back.


	2. Dépaysement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _DÉPAYSEMENT: the unsteady feeling you get when you are away from your home country._

Considering that against all odds, Laurent awoke to find he had not been ravished and or strangled in his sleep, it should have been a good morning.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t the case, since a guard stuck a long, cold needle into his arm about five seconds after he’d opened his bleary eyes. The syringe was filled with a bright blue liquid that didn’t look like it should ever be mixed with human blood, but nonetheless he felt the chill of it in his veins, and knew it was a sedative even before his mind grew fuzzy and his vision began to spot.

Across the cell, Damen was not nearly as compliant. Laurent watched from slitted eyes as he struggled violently, managing to knock over one of the guards before they bound his wrists again and stuck him with a similar needle. It was somewhat satisfying to watch the fight go out of him, but then again they seemed to be stuck in the same mess. Hazily, Laurent remembered the events from a few hours previous, knowing that his uncle had been counting on Damen doing much worse damage.

And yet…Damen hadn’t seized the opportunity, hadn’t leapt to the chance to get his revenge on Laurent for how he’d been treated; how he’d been hurt. Instead, Damen had…Laurent didn’t even want to think about it. Laurent’s distrust of him only grew – the murderous brute was just waiting for the right moment, and that was when he would let his true intentions be known. Whether those intentions were murder or rape or both, Laurent didn’t know.

Right now, though, Damen was in no position to do either of those things. He was being dragged out of the cell by six guards; Laurent was mildly offended his uncle had only assigned him three. The world spun and lights were hard to look at. The guards’ boots clicked on the stone, which eventually gave way to dirt. The sky was a fading black, gold seeping up from the horizon. Laurent tried to keep his eyes on the rising sun, but then he was being tossed like a sack of flour into something covered – a wagon? A carriage?

He landed half on top of Damen, who was barely conscious, his only response a low, pained groan. Laurent tried to focus on the guards’ voices as they spoke to someone else, perhaps the driver – _Lock it up real good. These two are dangerous. Let the slavers deal with ‘em once you reach the ship. Yes, the small one with blue sails._

Laurent’s breath caught as their impossible words sank in. Under him, Damen’s golden cuffs pressed coldly into the strip of skin exposed by his ridden-up shirt. He forced himself not to panic. Or perhaps he was so panicked he had become calm.

 _Who are they?_ Laughter. _An Akielon traitor and a rebellious pleasure slave. Nasty little viper. Don’t listen to anything he says._

Laurent knew he didn’t have many moments of clarity left. The world was dark and fuzzy at the edges, and Damen had just slipped away entirely, his body losing all its power and tension. Laurent could feel Damen’s heartbeat, slow and steady, and he forced himself to listen to it as the wagon started moving – _ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum._ It was an anchor, a last resistance against the blackness threatening to overtake his head.

The wagon clattered. The men laughed. Damen’s heart beat on.

*

By the time they reached the coast, both of them had started to regain consciousness. The wagon had been traveling for hours, to the point where the rhythmic rock and thump of the wheels had become familiar. It was a shock when it rolled to an abrupt halt and the locked wagon doors were flung open, flooding their small prison with sunlight.

Damen stirred, and Laurent listened to his heartbeat stutter and then begin to pound, quickly, as he awoke with a rush of adrenaline.

The men who pulled them from the wagon were strong, and smelled of brine and beer. Sailors, or perhaps more like pirates. Damen struggled; Laurent did not. Instead, blinking, he took in their surroundings. After so long in the quiet darkness, the docks were overwhelmingly loud and bright, full of people and ships of every kind. The sky had lightened to a powder blue; the sun hung low in the west. Their journey had taken nearly a day, then – they had to be in Marches, the northernmost coastal province.

Laurent lifted his gaze to the city, nestled in the northern hills away from the chaos of the docks, and knew he was right. The silver spires of the Veretian mint could be seen from where they stood – he’d been there once as a child, with Auguste, and Laurent remembered how excited he’d been to hear that one day, his brother’s face would be on those shiny coins. One day, his brother would be king.

Except he never would.

A sharp yank by his wrists shook Laurent out of his stupor, and he could feel the stares following him as the sailors took him and Damen through the crowded harbor. Laurent kept his head down, but Damen seemed incapable of lying low and staying inconspicuous – the Akielon fought the sailors every step of the way as best he could with his wrists tied and six of them holding him back. There was genuine fury in his eyes, and the expression on his face was dark and twisted and perfectly suited a barbarian like him. Damen, then, had also figured out what was happening. Where they were being taken. What was going to be done to them.

The sailors stopped in front of a ship like the one the guards back at Arles had described. It was a small brigantine, blue sails unfurled to catch the brisk sea air. There was nothing to tie it to the Regent or to Laurent himself, of course – Laurent wondered how long his uncle had been planning this.

The gangplank lowered. Laurent made as if to step forward, but one of the sailors stopped him. “Clothes, off,” he said in thickly accented Veretian. “Slaves have no need of clothes.” He grinned. His teeth were chipped and orange.

Laurent gritted his own teeth. Yes, his uncle must have been planning this for a long, long time.

He stood perfectly still as one of the sailors unsheathed a knife and began ruthlessly cutting his shirt and pants from his body, strips of thin white fabric fluttering to the muddy ground around him. He suppressed a shiver and kept his eyes down, glancing up only when Damen cursed angrily and chains clashed, followed by the _schhhhnick_ of ripping cloth. Swathe after swathe of copper skin was revealed to the sun. Laurent looked away.

When Laurent was fully bare, he stood silently, biting the inside of his cheek when one of the sailors whistled and several pairs of eyes settled heavily upon him. The one with the orange teeth gestured grandly to the gangplank. “After you,” he snickered.

Laurent went. Damen did too, though with much more snarling, kicking, and feet-dragging. They were brought to the deck for mere moments – their true destination was below decks, far from the captain and crew quarters, in the dank and dingy brig. The ship had been built recently – the walls here were not rotted or grimy yet, though that didn’t make the large iron cage in the center of the narrow brig look any more inviting. It was, Laurent noted with a sinking feeling, large enough for two. But just barely.

“Home sweet home,” Orange Teeth said, unlocking the single, padlocked door. It was so low that Laurent had to stoop to enter, and Damen probably had to crawl. The bottom of the cage was sheet metal, freezing against Laurent’s bare skin. At least their wrists were freed beforehand – how generous of them.

The door clanged shut behind Damen, whom Laurent still studiously ignored. “How long?” Laurent dared to ask the sailors as they turned to go back up, up the steps that led to light and freedom. “How long is the journey?”

Orange Teeth paused, looking back at him. “A week,” he said, with obvious relish.

Laurent knew his eyes widened. He couldn’t help it. Because, “Where are we going?” he pressed. _What could possibly lie at the end of a week’s journey across the Ellosean Sea?_

Orange Teeth raised an eyebrow. “The Artesian Empire, of course,” he said, and with that he left Laurent and Damen in the dimness together.

Laurent curled his knees up to his chest, glaring at the iron bars with mounting desperation.

“So,” Damen said, his voice low and mocking, “how are you going to talk yourself out of this one, Your Majesty?”

Laurent scowled. “Shut up,” he said. Still, he did not look at Damen.

Damen chuckled humorlessly. “No, I don’t think I will. You don’t have any whips at your disposal this time.”

Laurent froze, thinking of a strong brown hand holding his wrist tight enough to break. His breath whistled out through his teeth.

Damen paused. “Oh. No, Laurent, I didn’t mean –”

Laurent’s head jerked around to face him, eyes narrowed. “I know exactly what you _meant_ ,” he snapped. “And I’d expect nothing less from you.” He kept his eyes fixed resolutely on Damen’s face, and no lower. “It’s exactly what my uncle would have wanted.”

Damen blinked in genuine confusion. “He wanted…I don’t understand. Why would he do this to you in the first place?”

Laurent tipped his head back against the bars, his eyes half-lidded, his laughter short and sharp. “What you don’t know about my uncle could fill a book,” he replied. “Many books.”

“I know he’s a sick man who takes children to his bed,” Damen shot back. “I’m not certain I want to know more.”

“Children?” Laurent repeated. “Boys. They’re all boys.” He sighed. “My uncle enjoys seeing others pushed down. What better way to push his disobedient nephew down than to send me off in chains with my Akielon slave who hates me? ‘Strip them and put them in a cage at sea for a week, while you’re at it.’”

Damen folded his arms. “Do you Veretians truly think of us Akielons as little more than slavering dogs unable to control any of our bodily urges?”

Laurent gave him a withering look.

“We do a better job of controlling ourselves than Veretians,” Damen muttered. “We don’t have men raping each other in the ring, for one.”

“No,” Laurent agreed amiably. “They just kill each other.”

“It’s an honorable fight,” Damen retorted. “Your competitions are as devious and underhanded as your countrymen.”

Laurent sniffed. “Honor?” _You know nothing of honor, Damianos._ But he held his tongue. “Perhaps they are. But it is just how things are. It’s a game. If you don’t play it, you die.”

“Like us?”

“I’m not going to die here,” Laurent said grimly. “This is a game, too; my uncle’s game – and he’s only just begun. This ship is taking us somewhere very unpleasant, I wager.”

“The Artesian Empire, yes,” Damen mused. “I’ve heard tales.”

Laurent eyed him with disbelief. “You’re not actually stupid enough to think that sailor was serious, are you? The Artesian Empire crumbled centuries ago.”

“Hm,” said Damen, unconvinced.

“Fine, then,” Laurent snapped, “what _tales_ have you heard?”

Damen shrugged. “They’re not very specific. Just vague references in songs and poems, mostly, and none mention it explicitly by name. But I don’t know what else a ‘ _forgotten kingdom on the storm-tossed sea_ ’ could be.”

“It could be many things,” Laurent argued. “But again, I think we can rest assured it isn’t pleasant, no matter where it is.”

“You should really try to look on the brighter side of things,” Damen suggested.

“Yes? And how did that work out for you?” Laurent asked innocently.

Damen flushed, and Laurent could not help but notice the dark color spread down to his broad chest, and further down his chest his skin looked strangely soft, a fading bronze gradient –

“Since we’re ogling each other now, I suppose it would be an appropriate time to say that you’re remarkably pale everywhere,” Damen said.

It was Laurent’s turn to flush. Not _everywhere,_ he wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come.

“And now, pink,” Damen added, lips tilting in amusement.

Laurent very deliberately shuffled as far away from him as the cage permitted. “I’m so sorry,” he gritted out, “that I don’t spend every waking hour burning myself to a crisp under the blazing sun.”

Damen’s eyes were laughing at him. “I’m so sorry I don’t spend every waking hour laced up in the tightest, most complicated clothing known to man. Oh, wait, no I’m not.”

Laurent huffed and turned away, leaning heavily against the side of the cage. “If you even think about touching me, I will kill you in your sleep,” he warned.

Damen lifted his hands up in surrender. “You wound me,” he said lightly. But there was an edge to it, and when they both fell silent and Damen’s breaths evened out, Laurent glanced over his shoulder and was confronted with the ugly mess of Damen’s back facing him, a very real wound indeed. In the shadows, the scars looked like twisting snakes, an unofficial emblem of Vere branded into the Prince-killer’s flesh forever.

*

It was difficult to detect the passage of time without seeing the sun, but Laurent learned to detect it nonetheless, in the slight shifts of the shadows – dark gray meant day, black meant night, or so Laurent assumed. After that first day, he barely spoke to Damen, and Damen’s cheeky quips quickly dried up. The gravity of the situation was finally sinking in, Laurent assumed. Whether they were going to the fabled Artesian Empire or not, they were going as slaves. That much was clear.

Laurent had always been somewhat repulsed by the idea of slavery. The idea of someone else having complete control over a body; of a mind being reduced to a mere object to be used and discarded. They were always discarded eventually. In Vere, anyway. He recalled Damen saying that good men didn’t torture slaves in Akielos. _To abuse someone who cannot resist – isn’t that monstrous?_

Laurent did not sleep well that second night at sea. Nor the third, or the fourth. His thoughts were troubled, more so than usual. His uncle was not a good man. He knew that. But to do this…to go this extent…it could not simply be that the Regent wanted him gone. Not without reason. That night, Laurent could have been killed. He’d thought he was going to be killed. So why wasn’t he?

At the start and end of every day, someone would bring down barely enough crusts of bread and poor wine to be called a meal for them. At the end of the fifth day, Laurent felt too sick to eat anything, and sipped his wine unhappily as Damen ate everything in sight. Maybe it was the monotony wearing on him, or maybe it was the wine, but suddenly Laurent found himself asking, “Why did you defend me against my uncle’s men?”

Damen was surprised enough by Laurent initiating conversation that he nearly dropped his bread. “What?”

Laurent regarded him coolly from over the rim of the glass. “My uncle didn’t expect you to defend me. If you had not defended me, I think he would have had me killed.” Laurent’s lips pursed. “He expected you to take advantage of the situation, yet you did not.”

“Take advantage?” Damen repeated.

“If I had been killed,” Laurent explained, “you would have been free to try your hand at escape. And if you tried, my uncle’s men would have been waiting to capture you and lay the blame upon you, but more importantly upon Akielos. A story would be spun about how you were actually an assassin all along, sent by Akielos’s bastard king. All of Vere would rise up against you. Against Akielos.”

Damen had gone ashen. “There would be war,” he said.

Laurent nodded. “It was a clever plan. If only my murder weren’t the catalyst, it’s a scheme I would wholeheartedly support.”

Damen winced visibly. “Yet you live. So it seems there was another plan.”

“Yes.” Laurent frowned. “Not a very different plan, I think – my uncle has likely already told the Council the tragic tale of how you kidnapped me and sent back my maimed body.” It would not be difficult to find a youth with Laurent’s features, more or less. Break the nose, cover him with bruises, bloody him up, and nobody would be able to tell the difference. His uncle would confirm the corpse was his dear, innocent nephew, who had been naïve enough to trust an Akielon. Vere would mourn, and then they would take their revenge.

He looked at Damen and thought darkly, _It seems we are both dead princes, now._

Damen had finished his bread. There was a crumb at the corner of his mouth that irritated Laurent to no end. “Why not just kill us?” he replied. “That would be the simplest thing to do.”

“That would be the Akielon thing to do,” Laurent corrected. “And believe it or not, my uncle isn’t very keen on killing directly. He prefers a game. As do I.”

“Veretians,” Damen said, shaking his head.

“You still have not answered my question,” said Laurent. “Why did you defend me?”

Damen glanced at him. “You know what those guards would have done to you.”

Laurent’s eyes narrowed. “And I know what _you_ did to me, shortly afterwards. I know that you care little about me; as I care little about you.”

“No,” Damen said, watching Laurent closely, “if you cared so little about me, you would not care enough to hate me. Don’t feign indifference when you took such relish in flaying the skin from my back.”

Laurent’s lip curled. “I did,” he said. “Yet another reason for you to hate me.”

Damen made a low sound, considering. “I don’t hate you,” he said.

Laurent barely managed to mask his surprise. “No?” He didn’t believe Damen for a second, but let his eyes say otherwise.

“It seems counterproductive to hate you when we both have a common goal, now.” Damen tilted his head. “Don’t you agree?”

“When this is over,” Laurent started.

Damen rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. You may go back to hating me wholeheartedly then. But we are going to a foreign place in chains, and I would prefer to have an ally with me.”

“An ally,” Laurent said flatly. The word felt wrong in his mouth. “You.”

“Me,” Damen said.

Laurent considered it. Neither of them trusted each other. But maybe an illusion of trust was better than nothing at all. “You might just slow me down,” Lauren said. “I’m not convinced you’ll be a useful ally.”

Damen did not break his gaze. “We both know what kind of slave you’re likely to be. What else could a pretty, blond Veretian boy be used for?”

Laurent swallowed, hands curling into fists, nails digging hard into his palms. “Careful,” he said. He knew Damen was right, but it didn’t make him any less terrified about it. “And what about you? Will you be sent to labor in mines or build marble palaces until you die of exhaustion? What else could a hulking, brutish Akielon animal be used for?”

“Allies,” Damen said, “or not? Your choice.”

Laurent glowered at him. It was not much of a choice at all. He just hoped it would be one he didn’t end up regretting too deeply.

“Fine,” he said.

Damen extended a hand, waiting for him to shake it. Laurent eyed it as if it were covered in grime.

“Don’t touch me,” he said, and that was the end of their conversation.

That night, the ship rocked more than usual. Laurent had to grip the bars of the cage to avoid being thrown onto Damen’s side, so he could sleep only in fitful interludes. The crash of the waves kept him awake, his heart pounding at the thought that only a thin layer of wood separated them from the ocean. At some point, he lost what little remained in his stomach on the floor outside the cage, heaving until there was nothing but bile. Tears pricked at his eyes and he told himself it was just another symptom of the seasickness. He had never really liked the sea.

His gagging sounds prompted Damen to stir, making a muffled, worried noise and starting to sit up. “Laurent – ?”

Laurent, crouched in the corner, wiped a hand hastily over his mouth. “Go back to sleep,” he said thickly. His mouth tasted bitter and his breath stank of wine.

Damen blinked; in the darkness of the brig he was little more than a looming silhouette, the whites of his eyes and the gold on his wrists the only things that distinguished him from the shadows. But it was so much easier to think of him as a shadow, as a faceless monster under the bed, a creature of the night; than to think of him as a man, a man who reached out to Laurent with hands, not claws; a man who did so out of concern, not malice.

“There’s a storm,” Damen whispered, his voice somehow too loud in the cage, ricocheting off the bars, hurting Laurent’s ears.

“Go back to sleep,” Laurent repeated, knowing that to Damen, he must have looked more like a ghost than a shadow; a shipwreck wraith who brought omens of death and misfortune, a siren from the depths come to drown whomever was foolish enough to step into the enticing circle of its bone-white arms.

Damen stared at him. Laurent counted the seconds that passed in his head. When he reached six, Damen sighed and lay down again, his eyes shutting dutifully and his breaths steadying, deepening. Laurent wondered, for a moment, what would happen if he sat astride Damen. If he wrapped his hands, spectral as they were, around Damen’s neck. If he squeezed and pressed down, how long it would take before Damen fought back. How long it would take before Damen had reversed their positions. How long it would take for Laurent to die.

He did not sleep any more that night.

The sixth day dawned, but the brig stayed black. The storm went on. The mere sight of the food that was brought to them made Laurent sick. Again, he ignored Damen’s concern, cursing his own body’s weakness as he wiped his mouth yet again, his throat raw from retching.

Around the time night fell (or so Laurent assumed), the temperature dropped abruptly, the iron of the cage doing nothing to shield them from the cold. Laurent wrapped his arms tightly around his legs, drawn up to his chest, and tried to stop his teeth from chattering quite so loudly. Oddly, he’d managed to forget they were naked for the most part, or at least disregard it, but it became quite clear that people wore clothes for a reason as the temperature dropped further.

Laurent was still exhausted from his sleepless night previous, and his head ached from lack of food, lack of energy, lack of stimulus. So when he fell asleep, it was with no thought of grabbing ahold of the bars to anchor himself, only the thought of _cold, cold, cold._

But when he awoke hours later, disoriented, he wasn’t cold anymore. He could still hear the storm, the air was still chill, but there was a sturdy warmth at his back, and when Laurent put two and two together he squirmed and struck out blindly, the muscled arm wrapped around his hip shifting slightly. Breathing hard, Laurent was hyperaware of everywhere they were touching, of Damen’s chest flush with his back, of their thighs touching and what lay between – Laurent struggled against him. Damen’s arm tightened.

Warm, soft breaths tickled Laurent’s nape, and with them, a low snore. He paused. Damen was asleep. It had not been a deliberate attempt to assault him, then…but it was far too close to that for Laurent’s liking. He hesitated, then drove his elbow back, hard, into Damen’s shoulder.

Damen grunted in pain and awoke at once, though his arm kept a firm hold on Laurent. For a moment, Laurent thought he had been wrong; that this had been no accident at all and now he was exactly where Damen wanted him. But then Damen cursed and released him quickly, eyes wide as Laurent scrambled away.

The cold hit him like an icy blast. The heat from Damen’s body was fading on his skin, fast, and his teeth began to chatter again in earnest, his skin prickling with goose bumps. Damen was saying something – an apology, from the sound of it – but Laurent was tired and shivering and he could care less. He just wanted to sleep without dying of hypothermia.

“I didn’t mean to – Laurent? What are you…oh.” Damen was rendered speechless when Laurent reluctantly rolled back against him, grabbing Damen’s arm and draping it back over his hip. Laurent shifted against him, and felt Damen try to shift away, but Laurent’s hand clamped down on Damen’s elbow, holding him there.

“I am freezing,” Laurent hissed. “You, somehow, are not.”

Some of the tension left Damen’s body. “Are…are you using me as a heater?”

“What else are you good for,” Laurent grumbled.

Damen chuckled. “Does the “don’t touch me” rule no longer apply, then?”

Laurent jabbed his toe sharply into Damen’s thigh. “You know exactly what does and does not apply.”

“Hm,” Damen said, and then his hand settled warmly on Laurent’s chest, keeping him close as the ship rocked. “Does this apply?” He had a very large hand.

Laurent yawned, his lids growing heavy and his body even more so. “As long as I don’t wake up to you fucking me,” he mumbled.

Damen made a choked sound.

Laurent hummed, surprisingly content with this arrangement, and fell asleep once more to the sound of Damen’s heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments, they keep me and this story going! I know how painful it can be to wait forever for fics to update or to have fics suddenly stop updating altogether, so I promise you this one will be finished in a timely manner; I'm aiming for an update or two every week.
> 
> Chapters will alternate between Laurent and Damen because I love them both too much to choose just one. Thanks again for your support; the real action (not sex lol get ready for some slow burn) starts next chapter in Artes!


	3. Kleos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _KLEOS: renown and glory._

The storm continued through the seventh day, and Damen was struck with the realization that he would have to deal with a newly-tactile Laurent for yet another night.

There was something very surreal about seeing the ice prince stripped of his usual concealing attire, but even more surreal to have Laurent nestled up against him, asleep. Even then, Laurent managed to remain oddly detached. He hardly moved at all, his breaths soft and barely audible, his skin cool to the touch, and Damen knew from guilty observation that (unlike Damen) he never grew aroused during sleep.

Frigid. Damen didn’t know about that, after Laurent’s drugged display in the cell at Arles, but he did know that _he_ was most certainly not frigid and it was difficult to deny how nice Laurent’s body felt against his own. Then he remembered that Laurent was, as Orlant had put it, a cast-iron bitch, and the scars on his back twinged, and the cuffs on his wrists seemed tighter, and he managed to stay just as frigid as Laurent. Well, mostly.

But the seventh night never came. The storm faded near noon and the ship, with a jolt that made them both grab at the bars, stopped.

“Oh,” said Damen, as the hatch above them opened and figures came down the stairs.

Laurent said nothing, and kept his head bowed and mouth shut as the sailors chained their wrists once more and led them above decks. The bright sunlight made Damen’s eyes hurt, but again Laurent did not react. Damen eyed him worriedly. This new persona wasn’t defiant in its silence. It was, impossible though it seemed, submissive. Laurent complied with every jerk of the chains and did not react to the jeering of the crew. His eyes, from what Damen could see of them, were vacant, cloudy blue.

It was _wrong_. Damen hoped this Laurent was temporary; nothing more than a necessary façade. 

But as they neared the ship’s helm, Laurent’s eyes grew a little brighter as the strange place they’d been sent to came into view. Damen’s own eyes widened in disbelief. It was an island, as he’d expected, but a very large one, with a harbor bristling with sails and ships of every sort. 

That would have been extraordinary enough, but beyond it Damen could see cobbled roads clattering with carriages and horses and beyond _that_ lay what was unmistakably a city of vast proportions, surrounded by a series of magnificent granite arches and filled with buildings that somehow embodied both the elegance of Vere and the strength of Akielos. Crowning them, on a hill to the south of the city, a sprawling palace perched, white stone turned golden in the midday sun.

And beyond that? Beyond that were more trees than Damen had ever seen in his life. _A jungle,_ he realized with shock, not like the small, humid woods along the Vaskian borders but a _jungle_ , with treetops towering towards the heavens unchecked, flocks of colorful fowl flying overhead intermittently, and, Damen was sure, all manner of terrible beasts hidden in its depths. 

“Welcome to Artes,” one of the sailors said as they walked Damen and Laurent down the gangplank and onto the docks. Damen was not self-conscious, nor was nudity at all taboo in Akielos, but he could see a new tension in Laurent’s shoulders as the two of them were practically paraded through the crowds of passerby. _He deserves it_ , Damen tried to tell himself, but it wasn’t working.

They were led away from the larger crowds, into a section of the docks defined by the rows of people who were also stripped and bound. Damen was taken aback not only by the sheer numbers of them but by their diversity – male, female, slight, strong, small, large, Veretian, Akielon, Patran, even Vaskian – it made Damen wonder exactly how large this Artesian Empire was, if they required this many slaves to be imported. 

“New arrivals,” the sailor on Damen’s left arm called, catching the attention of one of the few men who was actually dressed – and finely so. His embroidered blue tunic was cut in a way that left his shoulders and arms bare, but his breeches were loose and white and gauzy and he had ornamented himself so heavily it would make Veretian nobles green with envy. His eyes were sharp and gray under heavy brows as they settled on Damen, one brow raising slowly, speculatively.

“Where did you find this impressive Akielon brute?” he said, in a language Damen could only describe as a garbled combination of his own tongue and Veretian. He understood every word, after a moment of utter bewilderment. It was bizarre, and Damen did not like it at all.

The sailor chuckled. “He’s a soldier who defected when Kastor took power. Got the lashes to prove it. He can still fight though.”

“I’ll bet,” the man said, gesturing for Damen to turn. He didn’t have much of a choice, and gritted his teeth as the chains were yanked so he would move. The man’s sharp intake of breath was audible. “What did the poor bastard _do_?” he said, whistling lowly and reaching out, brushing manicured fingers over the still-healing scars. Damen hissed and jerked back, not missing the flash of smugness on Laurent’s face. Damen glowered at him. Laurent batted his eyes.

But Laurent’s expression quickly changed when the man, apparently frightened by Damen, moved on to him with a very different look in his eye.

“And a Veretian, yes? Fine bones, even finer hair.” He carded his fingers through said hair idly, tipping Laurent’s face up. Laurent looked like he was barely breathing. “Pretty,” he remarked. 

“He was a pet in Arles,” the sailor said. Damen saw Laurent blanch, if only for a second. “He became too unruly for the Veretians to handle.”

“Hm,” the man said. “A pet?” He nodded to Laurent’s arms, his chest, his legs. “He has more tone than most pets. You say he was unruly? Explains why he looks as though he wants to wring my neck.” The man smiled, and Laurent stared at him coolly. The man stepped back and waved a hand. “Very well, I’ve made my decision. The Akielon goes to the fighting pits, of course. And the Veretian can go to the pits as well. As a prize.”

One of the slaves chained nearby winced visibly. 

“A prize?” Damen asked without thinking.

The chain was jerked roughly. “Silence,” a sailor snapped, but the man paused.

“Oh, yes,” the man said. “The fighting pits are a dangerous and difficult place, so every fighter who emerges victorious deserves a prize of their choosing.”

“A pet?” Damen said faintly. “You give the fighters a _pet_?”

The man inclined his head. “The unruly ones don’t last long,” he said. He glanced at Laurent. “But perhaps you will be chosen by a gentle fighter.” His laughter was not at all nice. 

The sailors began to argue with the man about payment. Damen and Laurent were led off by other men, who removed the collar Damen wore and replaced it with one much slimmer and lighter. Laurent, too, was collared. His face had become inscrutable again, but when the men led Laurent one way and Damen another, his mouth twisted.

“Wait –” Damen said, uselessly, as Laurent was taken away from him, to a line of other slim men and women with bowed heads and empty eyes. Damen turned to the men holding him. “I thought we were both going to the fighting pits!”

The men did not look at him. “Yes. But he is a prize, and must be prepared first.”

“Prepared –” Damen stumbled. “What…what usually happens to the prizes?” he asked.

This time, one of the men glanced at him briefly. “They are prizes,” he said slowly, as if speaking to an idiot. “They are used as much and as often as the victors desire, until they wear out. Then they are replaced.”

Damen looked back at Laurent, standing stiffly at the end of the line. Laurent was not some fragile thing, he told himself. He was a cast-iron bitch who could wrap anyone around his little finger. He could reduce any man to shreds with no more than his words. Laurent would survive, he told himself.

But again, it wasn’t working.

Eventually, Damen lost sight of him in the crowd. Resigned, he took his place in another line, alongside a man with a scarred face who Damen thought might be from Vask. Once Damen was secured, the men retreated, leaving Damen alone with the other slaves who were apparently headed for the fighting pits. He gave the scarred man a sidelong glance. The man looked back, levelly.

“Vask?” Damen asked, and the man looked a little surprised, hesitating before nodding.

“Akielos, yes?” he asked. Damen nodded. “Good fighters in Akielos.”

“And in Vask,” Damen offered, but the man just laughed lowly.

“Only the women are allowed to be good fighters,” he said.

“Is that why you left?” Damen asked.

He wrinkled his nose. “No. I…was unsuited to harem life.”

Damen blinked. He’d gladly trade that for this life. “Oh,” he said, trying to sound sympathetic. There was an awkward pause. “I’m Damen,” he added.  
The Vaskian’s mouth tilted. Not quite a smile, but genial enough. Damen would take it. “I am Ivar,” he replied. “But these names will matter little when we are dead.”

Damen frowned. “What do you know of the fighting pits, Ivar?”

Ivar’s brow lowered. “They are a place of death,” he said. “We see for ourselves soon.”

*

Soon, as it turned out, meant the following day. 

The first day in Artes was a blur of coin passing from hand to hand, the jerk of chains, the stifling heat of wagons filled with warm bodies, and the silent alliances made by resolute glances and brushed fingers. Damen had been shoved into a wagon with Ivar and the next eight men in line, who were a motley bunch of Patrans, Vaskians, and a couple of Akielons, plus a hulking man with red hair and a scowl who looked like he might be from the Northern Steppes. 

Damen immediately gravitated towards the Akielons, both dark-skinned like himself and heavily muscled. He learned the lither of the two was named Alexius, and the quieter one was Myron. Both had been soldiers in Sicyon under Meniados.

“What happened?” Damen asked, cautious, as the wagon bumped along the road. The men wore guarded expressions, lines on their faces that told tales better left unsaid.

Myron grunted, and turned away. Alexius sighed. “We were loyal to Prince Damianos,” he explained. “Meniados is not. When Kastor took power…” Alexius shook his head. “Something wasn’t right. Kastor had visited Sicyon alone months previous, and the whole thing stank of some plot or another. Didn’t want to be tangled up in that. We tried to go north, along with a dozen other men. Kastor didn’t approve.”

Damen swallowed. “How many of the kyroi are loyal to him?”

“Officially? All of them.” Alexius grimaced. “But we were not the only suspicious ones. There were rumors Nikandros of Delpha would defect.”

“Nikandros?” Damen repeated, a bit breathless. Myron gave him an odd look. Damen cleared his throat. “I, ah, served under Nikandros for a time. In Makedon’s army.”

“But you defected, and he sent you here?” Alexius asked, confused.

“No,” Damen said, carefully. “I was in Ios when I ‘defected.’ In reality I did nothing but try to save the Prince.” He lowered his eyes. “You are right about a plot. I did not see the Prince killed, but he was taken away. All his slaves were killed. And his guards, including myself, were…quietly disposed of.”

Alexius’s eyes were wide. “I knew it,” he growled. “Kastor was just a jealous, murderous bastard after all.”

Myron was watching him. “You say you did not see the Prince killed?” he questioned.

“No,” Damen said. “There…there is a chance he still lives.”

Myron scoffed. “That would be sloppy,” he said, dismissive. 

“They were brothers,” Damen said distantly. “Perhaps he found it difficult to kill him.”

“If you are right,” Myron muttered, “and Prince Damianos returns to reclaim his throne, there will be war. The kyroi are restless. Akielos is splintering as we speak.”

“Yes,” Damen agreed, his heart aching for the rolling hills of Delpha, the summer estate in Mellos, the white halls of Ios. “Yes, there will be war.”

*

They were brought by wagon to the palace. Damen at first thought there had been a mistake – but then the wagon clattered past the main palace buildings and to a huge, circular dome behind them at the true top of the hill, its shining surface adorned with flags and frescoes, the wide avenue around it swarming with carts and horses and men. And still the wagon clattered on, away from the hustle and bustle and under a stone arch leading down, down, under the dome. 

The wagon fell silent as they peered out the slit windows anxiously, catching glimpses of dark stalls and the shifting shadows within. A physician hurried past, followed by four men supporting a bloodied lump of flesh on a stretcher. Ivar’s jaw clenched. “A place of death,” he repeated.

Damen watched a group of men similar to the one in the wagon dress in thin leather armor, some with weapons sheathed at their hip, and relief washed over him. This, then, was an actual fighting pit – not the sick Veretian version of one. Perhaps he could survive this. He was a very good fighter, and he had plenty of motivation to live. If he died, the Akielon war Myron spoke of would never happen.

If he died, Laurent would be alone.

The wagon stopped a few minutes later; the doors were flung open and the men were ushered out by a fair woman who eyed them all as one might eye a particularly nice cut of meat. Damen did not miss the way her arms bulged with muscle as she shut the doors behind them, and wondered if he would have to fight a woman like that in the ring. That…would be interesting. And difficult, yes, but not as difficult as it would have been to do in Vere. He shuddered.

The woman, flanked by two guards, walked them through the dimly lit tunnels below the dome. “This space is the Ludus Magnus,” she said, the word being the first but not last strange one he would hear that day. “And these are the gladiators’ barracks, where you will sleep.”

She gestured to the area before them, which was little more than a dusty alcove filled with dingy cots. It was better than an iron cage, though, and Damen went to pick a cot gratefully with the other men after the guards had removed their manacles. The cot Damen chose had a suspicious dark stain on the pillow, and when he brushed his finger over it, it came away rusty and flaking. 

“Here you will be trained to perform in the midday fights tomorrow,” she continued, with another gesture to the wide underground space around them, which looked indeed like a training ground of some sort. “Most of you will die, but those who survive and perform well may gain favor from the Empress and the Senate. This will grant you a prize and quarters in the palace, as well as many gifts and admirers should you continue to perform admirably and avoid death.”

The men shifted with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Damen was surprised by the apparent generosity of Artes towards victors – how difficult, exactly, was it to win?

The woman stepped back. “I would wish you luck, but luck will not help you in the ring.” And with that helpful and uplifting statement, she turned on her leather-clad heel and left.

Damen looked to the men training across the way, his hands already itching for one of the gleaming broadswords on the wall. Ivar looked at him with a half-smile, and Myron was already getting to his feet. But it was Alexius who was the first to leap up and claim a blade, hefting it with a grin. “Who’s first?” he challenged. 

Damen grinned back at him and raised a hand.

*  
Damen hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the easy back and forth of swordplay, the familiar clang of steel on steel which sang in his ears and made his blood sing back in triumphant reply. He enjoyed how black and white it was, the lack of uncertainty involved in the activity. It was something Damen was good at, much better than he was at the verbal swordplay in Vere. Those feints and missteps were all invisible, unpredictable, yet could be just as deadly.

The sword was a physical, visible, purposeful weapon. An honorable weapon. Damen preferred it to all others. Laurent would prefer something more deceitful. A dagger, perhaps, or even poison. Like uncle, like nephew, Damen supposed.

But none of the gladiators training with him were Veretian, and all had been trained to fight honorably. It was interesting to see the different fighting styles, though – Ivar’s approach was a fast and brutal offensive, while Myron’s was more similar to Damen’s; heavily defensive and more focused on disarming the opponent. Alexius’s was a healthy mix of the two, and Damen had to admit he was very skilled – he lasted a whole twenty seconds against Damen. Damen wasn’t trying his hardest, it was true (after all he was supposed to be no more than a common soldier), but the other Akielon impressed him nonetheless.

That night, when they ate simple meals of bread and stew with the other gladiators, Alexius told them a tale of a lover he had left back home. “Her name is Callisto, and she is the most beautiful woman in Sicyon,” he said with a grand gesture of his spoon. 

“Here we go again,” said Myron, but he was smiling.

“Callisto has eyes like a calm sea, a sweet blue like the twilit sky, the kind of blue you could get lost in.” Alexius shook his head dreamily. “And they’re framed with these long, light lashes, yellow as her hair, made of gold, I swear they must be. So much softer, though.”

Damen’s interest was piqued. “She sounds lovely,” he said.

“Aye, she is,” Alexius agreed. “Bit of a sharp tongue, but it grows on you. Oh, the days I spent lost in that milky-white skin of hers –”

Ivar shoved him, irritated. “Not all of us are as keen on lasses as you,” he grumbled. 

Alexius shrugged. “Your loss,” he said. “She’s an angel on earth, that Callisto. Been with her thirteen moons before they put me on that damned ship. Didn’t even get to say a proper goodbye.” He sniffed. “She said she might have been with child, too.”

Myron snorted. “You wish,” he said. There was no bite to his tone. Alexius’s good cheer had fallen, and he picked at his bread indifferently. Myron clapped him on the back. “She knew you were a soldier. Soldiers leave. She knew.” Alexius nodded, mouth downturned.

“I hope you see her again someday,” Damen offered. “And maybe you’ll see your child, too.”

Alexius nodded. “Maybe so,” he said. “If fate is kind, maybe so.”

*

The day of the fights dawned with a rush of movement and sound in the Ludus Magnus, as the gladiators chosen to perform that day were suited up and sent down the tunnel leading to the main fighting pits. The Colosseum was its official name, according to the woman who had returned to see them off, and it could hold over seventy thousand spectators. Damen thought this was probably an exaggeration. 

He hoped it was.

“Empress Liviana and her Consuls, Valerius and Otho, will be in attendance,” she told them as they strapped on the last of their armor. It was thin armor, and hardly affective in a close-quarters fight, but it was better than being sent in nude, so Damen didn’t complain. At the mention of the Empress, many of the men paused. The woman sniffed. “The rumor is that her Consuls are willing to purchase gladiators who do exceptionally well today. As of now, you belong to the Empire. Belonging to a Consul will grant you…a longer life span.”

“What of the Empress?” Alexius asked. “Will she purchase us, too?”

She narrowed her eyes. “The Empress does not consort with gladiators,” she said. “She takes on no slaves of her own. She finds the practice distasteful, but understands its necessity. And she enjoys the fighting pits. But no, she will not spend royal coin on any of you.”

Damen blinked. An empress with no slaves? This country was shaping up to be stranger and stranger. 

In the distance, there was the sound of a horn, loud and drawn-out. The woman started off towards the tunnel. It was low, low enough that Damen and Myron had to stoop slightly, and the walls were barely an arms-width apart. She was still talking. 

“The order of the performances depends on volunteers. The first volunteer goes first, the second goes second, and so on. The fight ends when one of the two opponents is dead. If you should win, you may choose a prize from the pets on display. The prize is yours until you die. If you find favor with the Senate, you will be taken to the palace for celebrations. Are there any questions?”

“Will we be given weapons?” Damen asked.

She gave him an odd look. “Of course,” she said. “Unarmed, death would be certain. For your first fight, you will receive a dagger.”

Damen frowned. So much for an honorable fight. But her comment about certain death rankled him even more. There was something different about these fighting pits. Something…off. 

The tunnel ended several hundred feet later, leading them to a more polished yet just as crowded space, with slaves running to and fro carrying weapons and armor and bandages, and a strange series of what looked like trap doors above their heads. The doors could be accessed by platforms, which rose in a series of intricate pulleys. It was like nothing Damen had ever seen before.

“This is the hypogeum,” the woman told them. “Above us is the arena.”

Indeed, Damen could already hear the dull roar of a crowd, the beating of drums, the second sounding of the horn.

“When the third horn sounds, one of you will take your place on this platform.” She nodded to the closest of the dozen or so platforms under the trap doors. “The door will open, and you will be brought up to the arena. The people dislike acts of cowardice. Even if you win, if the people dislike your performance, death is still an option. And if the gods dislike your performance, death is inevitable.”

That hardly seemed fair. Gods? Damen wondered what sort of creatures they were – not merciful ones, apparently. A slave distributed the daggers out to him and the other men, and Damen examined the weapon critically – it was very small, the hilt barely large enough to fit in his hand, but it was forged of good steel and had a slightly curved blade – a cut from it would hurt more. Damen wondered if his opponent would be similarly armed, or if this fight would be made even more unfair.

The hypogeum quieted as the crowd grew louder. The woman looked them all over. “Who will go first?” she asked.

Unsurprisingly, Alexius stepped forward. “I will.”

She inclined her head. “Good. And second?”

Damen found himself stepping forward. “I will,” he said. When he stepped back in line, Ivar touched his wrist lightly, his expression inscrutable. Damen shook his head. “Might as well get it over with,” he murmured. 

The third horn sounded. 

The woman nodded to Alexius. “May the gods be with you,” she said as he stepped onto the platform. Slowly, impossibly, it began to rise, slaves working the pulley and opening the trap door with a similar system. All Damen saw was a flash of sunlight and sand and then the door was closing behind Alexius, leaving them once more in darkness. “Take your place,” the woman said to Damen. He did.

Damen disliked waiting, listening uncertainly to the sounds of battle above him, wishing he could see it. He turned to the woman. “You spoke of gods,” he said to her. “What gods are those?”

She blinked, taken aback. “The pantheon of Artes,” she replied. “It is in part for them that this Colosseum exists. The gods must have blood, in order for us to have glory and prosperity.” Seeing Damen’s raised brow, her mouth twisted. “I know you believe you are better than us for not having such savage gods, Akielon. But your people would never exist without mine. We are your origins. The gods of Artes may watch over you yet. And if they do not, that will be made clear by your death.”

Damen bit back a retort. Despite his doubt, he was intrigued. “Is there a particular god associated with the fighting pits?”

Again, she seemed surprised by such questions, as if she had expected him to be nothing more than a mindless warrior filled with bloodlust. “No,” she said. “But…each person has a certain god who favors them. A patron. Perhaps you have one.”

The sound of a horn and the screams of the crowd cut off further discussion. The platform started to rise. Still waiting with the others, Ivar met Damen’s eyes, Damen’s own firm resolve reflected in the Vaskian’s gaze. Damen did not feel much like dying today. He gripped the dagger tightly. The trap door opened, he stepped off the platform, and was met with a wave of sound and the stench of death.

Several feet away, Alexius was lying motionless on the ground, his guts torn open and his blood slowly seeping into the sand of the arena. His dagger was nowhere to be seen.

And behind his body, prowling along the edges of the circular space, was the largest bear Damen had seen in his life. Its claws and muzzle were stained red, and a long slice ran across its left flank which didn’t seem to hinder it at all. If anything, it just made the bear angrier.

The crowd, too, was out for blood. Damen raised his eyes to them, unable to come to terms with the sheer numbers of people who leapt and cheered in the stands, pounding their feet on the polished stone and raising their voices to inhuman levels. His gaze slid over them – a blur of faces and colors, but there – directly across from him, in a box separate from the others, sat a woman dressed in full panoply, golden crown gleaming in her dark curls, brown skin turned bronze in the sunlight which was echoed by her golden dress. She stared at him, steady and unimpressed.

On either side of her sat a man in similarly impressive regalia. Both had similar coloring – skin a shade lighter than Damen’s own, with wavy hair and light eyes. A mixture of Akielon and Veretian blood, he realized. The Consuls. They were the ones he truly had to impress. The one on the right, dressed in glittering blue, was watching Damen with an indulgent smile, hands clasped. Maybe he had a chance.

And then another flash of blue caught his eye – in front of the box, in the first row of seats, sat a demure line of pets, bare-chested and decorated with every manner of distracting gold and jewels, with powder dusting their shoulders and cheeks. But only one of them was looking at him – Laurent, blue eyes wide in a rare moment of shock which he quickly smoothed over, expression becoming cool and detached as usual. There were small strands of sapphires dangling from his ears. They were the same color as his eyes, Damen thought distantly.

The bear, having tired of prowling, finally saw Damen, and roared.

Laurent gave him a look that seemed to say, _Are you going to take care of that?_

Damen moved towards the bear to get a better look. This was the wrong thing to do. It charged him. Bears, Damen realized, were quite fast. But not very agile. He evaded its lumbering strides with ease, retreating to the opposite edge of the arena. He would have to look from afar, apparently.

Damen had fought many things, but a bear was not one of them, especially not one like this. It was easily twice the size of any Akielon bear, with a hulking mass of shoulders that rose far up above its massive, swinging head, wide mouth lolling open in a snarl. Damen had seen what those sharp yellowed teeth could do to flesh, and had no intention of going anywhere near them. Its eyes were small and black and beady, but its ears pricked and its large nose twitched, snuffling the air to catch his scent. Bad vision, bad agility, stay away from the head. And the clawed paws, which were heavy and looked possibly more dangerous than the teeth. 

The crowd was growing restless. They wanted him to make a move. Damen wanted to not die, so he did not.

The bear had either less of a deathwish or a higher probability of winning or both, because it charged Damen again, and this time its aim was much better. Damen leapt away but the bear lunged, claws swiping inches from Damen’s face, its bulk shaking the ground as it landed on all fours again, beginning to circle him, growling. Damen had two choices – go for the softer throat and underbelly or go for the back of the neck. 

Only one of those options had a lack of claws involved. Damen made his choice, and this time leapt towards the bear, slashing the dagger across its left foreleg as it struck out again, feinting to the right and ducking under the clumsy swipe, rolling across the sand as the bear turned, striking its left side again, much to the approval of the crowd. Scarlet splattered across the white sand, and the bear’s jaws dripped with a mixture of blood and drool as it panted in pain and aggravation. 

In a way, Damen felt sorry for it. It, like him, had never asked to be here, to fight to the death in a strange place with strange creatures. It had killed Alexius not out of bloodlust but out of the fear and fury of a caged animal. Damen could understand that.

“I will give you a fast death,” he told the bear, quiet, in Akielon. 

The bear lunged. Damen lunged, too…but not away from it. Instead, his hand caught ahold of thick, grizzled fur, and he swung himself up onto the beast’s huge shoulders as if mounting a particularly large and angry horse. The crowd bellowed, stomping their feet, recreating the pounding of the drums. Damen clung to the bear’s thick scruff, trying to keep his hold as its head thrashed back and forth in a very good attempt to throw him off. All he had to do was keep his grip on it for long enough to drive the dagger into its neck –

The bear reared up onto its hind legs, scratching at the air, roaring and snarling, and it was only Damen’s years of riding temperamental stallions that kept him on its back, his face nearly buried in the fur atop its head, which was damp with sweat. He could feel the heaving breaths of the bear beneath him, could sense its panic, its frustration. Damen seized the moment of stillness as it came back down again, and stabbed the approximate place between skull and vertebrae as hard as he could. 

The bear howled in agony, and Damen’s world flipped up and over, inside out, as the bear threw itself against the walls of the arena, stunning him, and rolled onto its back, crushing him beneath it. He was caught between gritty sand and what felt like a thousand pounds of muscle. He couldn’t breathe. His chest seemed to sink in with every movement of the bear, and he wondered if his ribs were breaking, or if his body was somehow deflating, all the air pushed out of it at once. 

But the dagger was still in his hands. With the last of his strength, the last of his breath, he drove it into the bear, slashing and stabbing with the finesse and desperation of a blind man, again and again and again, until he was soaked in sweat and sand and blood, and the bear grew still above him, and Damen, writhing and shoving and kicking, escaped from under it. His ribs were not broken. His chest was bruised, his body ached, his back hurt, but he was whole. He was alive.

Panting just as the bear had, Damen stood before the exultant crowd, the dagger dropping from his bloodied hands with a dull thud. Their applause was wordless thunder, and the blaze of Laurent’s eyes as he came forward with the other pets was lightning. But the Empress, who rose from her seat to look down upon him, quieted the storm with a mere wave of her hand.

The sudden silence was somehow deafening. 

Empress Liviana stared at him in a different way than before. Damen would not call it admiration…grudging respect, perhaps. She inclined her head, black curls bobbing, crown flashing in the sun, and the crowd went wild once more. On her right, the Consul in blue’s smile had widened. Damen looked at him, and the Consul looked back, and gave him a slight nod.

The guard who had brought the pets down said, “Choose your prize, victor.”

Damen grinned, dizzy with adrenaline and triumph. The line of pets was meek and subservient, faces tipped up and bodies on display for his perusal, save one. Laurent’s teeth were gritted; face turned away, glittery shoulders hunched. Maybe he had hoped Damen would die. But Laurent, of all people, should know it took more than that to kill him. 

Damen pointed. “That one,” he said. “The one wearing the sapphires.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit this chapter is long?! I'm sorry (or maybe you like these longer chaps? let me know your thoughts!).
> 
> also, yes, Callisto is a nymph in Greek mythology who was turned into a bear. how's that for foreshadowing? and yes, Artes is blatantly based off of the Roman Empire (Republic? A mixture of them? Whatever.)
> 
> enjoy!


	4. L’esprit d’escalier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _L'ESPRIT D'ESCALIER: the predicament of thinking of the perfect reply too late._

Laurent was numb. This couldn’t possibly be happening. And yet there he was, dressed as a pet, being hefted up and over Prince Damianos’s shoulder like some helpless maiden, carried out of the loud arena to serve the man who had killed his brother.

There was no way to escape – Laurent had considered every avenue already, but there were none, and Damen’s grip on him was too strong to break anyway. The smell of blood filled the air, splattered as it was over Damen’s leather armor, and Laurent focused on breathing out of his mouth, feeling the blood seep damply into his own slave garments where they were pressed together.

Damen was being led out of the arena under an arch and through a separate tunnel, but Laurent could not see what lay before them. He could only stare at the receding sea of people and hope that this would not be the last time he saw the sun.

The guards ahead of Damen had begun talking. “Never seen someone take down a bear like that,” one told him. “Never seen someone crazy enough to ride the damn thing.”

Damen shrugged; Laurent bounced with the movement. “Not quite like a horse,” he said.

The other guard snorted. “Still, you mounted it easily enough.” His tone changed. “Speaking of mounting…”

Laurent tensed, nails digging into the leather armor, staring now at the earth beneath Damen’s feet, half-wishing it would swallow him up. Damen’s hand, which was wrapped around the backs of Laurent’s bare thighs, tightened. Laurent wondered if it would bruise.

Damen chuckled darkly. “Wishing you could have a turn? I’m afraid you’d have to fight a bear and win before I’d even consider it.”

So Damen didn’t like to share. A small mercy.

The guards quickly backtracked. “Nah, you picked a pretty one, but I’d have gone for one of the girls. Softer and easier, y’know.”

“Unlike you, he was smart and avoids the chance of bastards,” the other one muttered. “Besides, the boys are soft and easy enough; they’re all prepared beforehand.”

Laurent squeezed his eyes shut as Damen’s step faltered. Laurent had been hoping to somehow hide that fact from him. Somehow. As if a lack of convenience would somehow dissuade him. But at least things couldn’t possibly get worse, now.

The earth beneath Damen’s feet changed from bare dirt to light stone. The tunnel continued to slope downward. Steam floated up, wreathing around them, and even before the guards spoke Laurent realized he’d been wrong; it could get so much worse.

“These are the baths,” one said. “Your pet can attend you, or there are other slaves available –”

“No,” Damen said, and Laurent could _hear_ the satisfaction curling in his voice, “my pet will attend me, thank you.”

Snickering, the guards nodded and retreated back the way they’d come. Damen, still carrying Laurent, continued down the marble steps to the source of the steam. It was a large private bath surrounded by dressing screens, painted with scenes that would have enchanted Laurent were he able to focus on anything other than the pounding of his own heart and Damen’s hands on him.

Damen’s hold on him changed, and then Laurent was lowered, his knees weak when his feet met solid ground again. Damen looked down at him, appraising. Laurent tipped his chin up and looked right back, defiant.

Damen’s lips curled slowly. “Who looks like a whore now?” he said.

Laurent’s eyes narrowed. “I look better than you did,” he retorted.

“Hm,” Damen said, not necessarily disagreeing, and Laurent’s blood turned to ice as Damen reached out, brushing his fingertips over one of the sapphires in Laurent’s ears. “The glitter, I’m not certain about, but these…these suit you.”

Laurent said nothing.

Damen’s gaze swept over his body, lingering on the gauzy, pathetic excuse for fabric draped over Laurent’s hips. “I got blood on you,” he said. “Perhaps it’s for the best that you’re bathing, too.”

Laurent sneered. “For the best,” he repeated, incredulous. “I would rather be anywhere than here, brute.”

“Anywhere?” Damen mused. “I met the other gladiators, you know. I think they’d have you in much more interesting places by now if they’d chosen you.” His tone was mild and playful, but Laurent took a step back nonetheless, ‘til he was standing on the edge of the bath.

“Do you want me to thank you for not brutalizing me yet?” Laurent snapped, his spine rigid.

“No,” Damen said, raising his brow, irritatingly unfazed. “I want you to attend me.”

Laurent glared, clinging to what little pride he had left. “No.”

Damen seemed amused by this. “No? You won’t like the consequences for refusal.”

Laurent’s stomach turned. He could imagine the consequences, vividly. “No,” he repeated.

Damen sighed, and then stepped forward and shoved Laurent, just hard enough for him to lose his balance and topple with a cry into the bath, arms flailing as he landed with a resounding splash. Laurent surfaced, coughing and spluttering, sweeping his sopping hair away from his face.

Damen was laughing. “You look like a drowned cat,” he said brightly, and Laurent wished for a moment that he was, so he could scratch Damen’s eyes out.

But then, oh, then Damen stopped laughing and started unbuckling the armor, the cuirass and the pauldrons falling at his feet, then the belt, then the tunic. Laurent resisted the urge to shrink back. He had seen Damen bare before, but he had been chained then, whether by real restraints or Laurent’s words.

Now, Laurent was the one chained, and Damen was free to wade into the water towards him, sending ripples outward that rocked Laurent’s frozen figure gently, threatening to tug him from his moorings as he recalled a not-so-distant memory in a moment of terrible déjà vu.

_Don’t be presumptuous._

_Too late, sweetheart._

Laurent still evaded him as best he could, backing away until his back hit the edge of the baths, and Damen stopped when he was close enough to reach out and touch. The water around him was turning pink.

“Attend me,” Damen repeated, quiet, “and maybe I’ll return the favor.”

“An eye for an eye, then?” Laurent said bitterly. “Is this how it’s going to be? Will you have me whipped as well?”

“I won’t have you whipped,” Damen said. “Unlike you, I am not unreasonably cruel.”

“I had plenty of reason,” Laurent shot back, but his words fell flat. Damen had not given him enough reason to flay him alive that day in the baths, after all. He had given him reason to do it the day Damen killed Auguste. But he could not say that.

Damen nodded to a spot behind Laurent. “Attend me,” he said one last time. Laurent turned slightly, and saw a silver pitcher set out alongside several folded clothes and a small mountain of soaps and oils. Still, he resisted, and then someone came down the steps and around the dressing screens, pausing at the sight of them. Laurent looked up, surprised, only to see one of the men called Consuls; the one dressed in blue. He reached hastily for the cloth and soap, well-aware he was supposed to be a servile slave in front of others. He kept his head down as he reached out to Damen’s chest, rubbing the cloth across it, drying blood flaking off and dripping in translucent red rivulets. Laurent was not the one the Consul was here for. He would not draw unnecessary attention to himself by being disobedient.

“My apologies for the intrusion,” the Consul said, in a way that implied he was not sorry at all. “I had hoped I might find you here, Akielon. Your performance in the Colosseum today was…remarkable.”

“Thank you,” Damen said. “May I ask your name?”

He inclined his head, which was crowned with salt and pepper curls. “I am First Consul Valerius, and chief advisor to Her Imperial Majesty. And I suspect you have a name other than ‘Akielon?’”

Damen smiled. Laurent scrubbed. “Yes. Damen.”

“Well, Damen, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Valerius said, smiling back. For the first time, his gaze slid to settle on Laurent. “And your prize, as well. Does he have a name?”

Damen shook his head ruefully. “If he does, he hasn’t told me yet. The poor creature is quite shy. Hardly speaks at all, really.” Laurent bit his tongue furiously.

“Oh,” Valerius said. “I suppose that’s alright, since talking isn’t what he’s meant for.” He smiled again, thin and too-bright. “There is to be a celebratory feast in the palace tonight, and as a victor of the day’s fights you are invited.” He paused. “I think you will be pleased to know that I have also officially placed a bid on you, Damen. Being the slave of a Consul is a great honor, I’m sure you understand.”

“I do,” Damen said. “I am honored.”

Another pause. “By extension, I also own your prize, as the pet is technically yours. So you are free to bring him to the festivities as well.” Another thin smile. “Perhaps wine will loosen his tongue.”

“Perhaps,” Damen said. Laurent scrubbed harder, having finished Damen’s arms and chest, the cloth dangerously low on his stomach. Laurent could see the shape of him below the surface of the water, through the thin film of oils and soap floating around them. “We’ll be there, Consul.”

“Splendid,” Valerius said. He glanced at Laurent’s hand, then back at Damen. “I’ll take my leave.”

As soon as he was gone, Laurent snatched his hand away as if burnt, but Damen caught his wrist. Laurent’s heart leapt into his throat as Damen shifted closer. So this was how it would happen.

Laurent remembered how it had happened the first time, how he had watched Damen dragged away and strapped down onto the cross, how he had watched every strike of the whip across Damen’s shoulders, watched the blood run down his skin and wondered why it hadn’t been as satisfying as he’d thought it would be.

But Damen _would_ take satisfaction in this, in taking Laurent, in taking his revenge now that they were far, far away from Vere and Akielos and Laurent had no sway over him. _Coward_ , Laurent wanted to say, but he knew it was not true. Prince Damianos had commanded armies at seventeen and killed men long before then. He would not hesitate to conquer Laurent just as ruthlessly as he had conquered Delfeur; he would not hesitate to tear Laurent apart just as he had torn Laurent’s world apart years ago.

Laurent’s hand was trembling in Damen’s grasp, a violent tremor he could not hide even as Damen took his other wrist, touched his face, gazed at him with worried eyes. “Laurent?” he whispered. Laurent tried to jerk away but the stone edge scraped his back. “Calm down –”

Laurent snarled at him, twisting in his grasp. “I won’t make this easy for you,” he gasped, knowing how ridiculous his statement was when Damen could pick him up with one hand. “I’ll fight you the whole time; I am not some passive pet who will bend over for you to –”

“ _Laurent_ ,” Damen breathed, horrified, looking as though he’d been slapped. “I’m not going to do that to you, not now, not ever. I meant what I said on the ship.”

“‘What else could a pretty, blond Veretian boy be used for?’” Laurent mocked.

Damen’s brow lowered. “That’s not –”

“That’s what you said,” Laurent hissed, “on the ship.” His wrist twitched abortively in Damen’s grip. “And look, you were right. Does this make you happy, seeing me like this? Knowing that you could fuck me in front of the entire party tonight and nobody at all would stop you?”

Damen’s horror was replaced by disgust in an instant. “What is _wrong_ with you?” he growled. “Why do you seem to think I’m so keen on getting you under me? Don’t flatter yourself, if I’d wanted that I’d have chosen one of the women. I am much more likely to _kill_ you in front of the entire party.”

Laurent swallowed, knowing that Damen not desiring him should have been a relief, and wondering why it wasn’t. “Fine,” he spat. “Then _get off of me._ ”

But Damen only released one of his hands. “We are allies, now,” he said. “You made a promise. Now keep it.”

Laurent frowned. “So I am to play the role of your sweet, submissive sex slave while you fight to the death daily in the arena? And what if you die? What use is our ‘alliance’ to me then?”

“I will not die,” said Damen firmly, and strangely, Laurent believed him. “Our alliance benefits you more than me, anyway.” His eyes narrowed. “For example, if you decide to be clever and slip a knife into my back, you’ll be ‘gifted’ to a gladiator who doesn’t know or care about the vile serpent you are, and will have no qualms about using a pet for its intended purpose.”

“Vile serpent,” Laurent repeated. “I’m touched you think so highly of me.”

Damen let go of him completely, shaking his head. “It’s the truth, and you know it.” He exhaled slowly. “But I swear to you that I will uphold my part of the alliance. If anyone so much as lays a hand on you, I’ll cut it off. Or threaten to, at least.”

Laurent’s stomach flipped, and not in an entirely unpleasant way. “Except you, I suppose?”

Damen rolled his eyes. “Not in the way you’re thinking, vile serpent.” He bit his lip. “But...there may be occasions, like the party tonight, where you will need to act like –”

“Like a pet, yes,” Laurent said. Damen’s expression looked as disgruntled as Laurent felt. “I am a very good actor when I must be. As long as we are clear that it is just _acting_ and nothing more –”

“Of course,” Damen said. “Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re actually appealing.”

They glared at each other for a long moment. This, Laurent thought, might actually work.

Footsteps sounded lightly against the wet tiles. Laurent, out of the corner of his eye, saw a slave waiting awkwardly on the steps, hands folded and head bowed. Damen nodded at Laurent to follow, and waded out of the bath shamelessly. The slave turned scarlet. Reluctantly, Laurent waded out after him, glad that his slave garments remained, however sheer and inadequate they might be.

“Yes?” Damen said, taking a towel draped over one of the dressing screens and wrapping it around himself, tossing the other to Laurent.

The slave cleared her throat. “I, ah, was sent to bring you to your quarters, ser. They are not far. There are clothes waiting for you there.”

“Thank you,” Damen said, smiling at her, and Laurent did not miss the way his gaze lingered on her face and chest, the way her cheeks darkened further and her lashes fluttered. She peered at Damen through a curtain of shiny black hair and smiled shyly back. Laurent nudged Damen forward none too gently.

“I’m very cold,” Laurent said by way of explanation, shivering convincingly and batting his eyelashes. Damen scowled at him. The girl’s smile fell. To twist the knife in further, he added, “And I would _really_ prefer a bed to the baths.”

The girl blanched. Damen’s mouth settled into a thin, furious line. “Of course,” he said, wrapping a proprietary arm around Laurent’s shoulders, hand resting heavy on the back of his neck. “Lead the way, please,” he said to the girl, who turned stiffly on her heel and strode up the steps, towards the tunnel which led into what Laurent suspected would be a whole new level of hell.

*

The palace was…jarringly familiar, and yet…not. The halls they reached after climbing two flights of stairs were as decorated as any halls of Vere, yet their structure was stronger and more utilitarian, and the spaces were wide and airy in a way Laurent was utterly unaccustomed to (but Damen, he suspected, felt right at home with). It would have been an inspiring blend of culture if Laurent did not loathe Akielos so completely and utterly.

The quarters Damen had been given were…generous, for a slave. So generous it made Laurent wonder exactly how wealthy the Artesian Empire was, and how he had never heard of it before. The room was one large, open space sectioned off by a variety of strategically-placed dressing screens and wall hangings, some thick and embroidered like tapestries and others light and diaphanous, fluttering gently in the warm breeze.

The floor was a similar patchwork pattern of various lavish rugs interspersed by bare marble, with a low sofa off to the side next to a finely-made end table, upon which a jug of wine and a hefty plate of food had been placed. Against his will, Laurent’s stomach rumbled.

The far wall had wide windows framed by useless gossamer curtains, bathing the room in soft afternoon light and offering a view of the city. Off to the right, Laurent could see the archway leading to a smaller, private bath. They were quarters fit more for a lord than a gladiator.

And of course there was the bed, large and placed ostensibly in the center of the room, covered in a strange but soft-looking mixture of silks and furs and an unnecessary number of pillows, with a heavy wooden frame that extended up towards the ceiling, draped with a damask canopy that offered some privacy. Not that they would need it, if Damen kept his word.

The slave told them what time they were expected for the party and where, pointed out the clothes folded for them on the bed, and left with an obvious glance towards the table beside the bed, which was covered in an alarmingly large array of oils. Laurent ignored the oils as best he could and quickly snatched up his clothes, which were irritatingly similar to an Akielon chiton. He held it up critically, not even sure how to begin to try to pin and drape the shapeless cloth monstrosity. Damen noticed, mouth twitching with amusement as he pulled on his own vest and breeches.

They were a bit too tight on him, and the vest made the muscles in his bare arms look almost obscene. Laurent looked back at the chiton, and glared. “I am not wearing this,” he said.

Damen raised an eyebrow. “You’d rather go nude? I can respect that.”

“I don’t see how someone can possibly wear this _what are you doing._ ” Laurent froze as Damen reached out and untied the soaked garment at Laurent’s waist, causing him to hug the chiton to his chest protectively, glowering at Damen.

Damen sighed and took the chiton, wrapping it around Laurent before he could utter another word of protest. “It’s simple,” Damen told him. “You’re making it more complicated than it really is.” As if to prove his point, he pinned it neatly and efficiently at the shoulder and the waist, leaving Laurent standing there with his arms, legs, and half his chest and back exposed, wondering why it felt even more revealing than what he’d been wearing before.

Damen put a finger to his lips, considering. “You look like an Akielon pet now,” he informed Laurent.

“Fuck you,” Laurent said in Akielon. Damen grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. He was going to get wrinkles there someday, with all the grinning he did. Laurent would get no such wrinkles.

Damen went to the bed, and picked up one of the bottles of oil with more curiosity than intent. “We should probably use some of the oil, so nobody starts getting suspicious.” At Laurent’s pale face he quickly added, “Just use it up somehow, pour it down the drains for all I care. Although…” He hesitated.

“What,” Laurent said, already regretting it.

“I wonder if these could work as a salve,” Damen replied, which was…not what Laurent had been expecting. Damen shrugged off the vest. His gaze flicked down inevitably to Damen’s back, which was half-visible from where he sat on the side of the bed, a knotted mess of scar tissue that had reopened in places, bruised and reddened on his lower back especially. It…was hard to look at.

“It hurts?” Laurent asked, aiming for aloof and detached and not quite making it.

Damen gave him a look. “No thanks to you.”

Laurent folded his arms. “The oil might work as a salve,” he said. “Paschal uses oil as an ingredient in his, anyway.”

Damen uncorked the bottle, pouring some into his palms and reaching back awkwardly to spread it across his shoulders, his wince of discomfort visible even from across the room. Laurent’s mouth tasted bitter and he did not know why. He also did not know why he went to sit beside Damen, yanking the bottle from him and shoving at his side to make him turn his back to Laurent.

“You’ll just make it worse if you try to do it yourself,” Laurent snapped, pouring the oil onto his own hands. Damen glanced at him over his shoulder, opened his mouth, closed it. His head bowed, waiting, and at the first press of Laurent’s slick palms on his back he tensed, a thin noise of pain escaping from his lips. Laurent drew back slightly, startled, but Damen shook his head.

“Gentler,” he said, and they both knew how ridiculous it was for him to ask that of Laurent, of all people, but Laurent found his touch softening nonetheless, found that he did not actually enjoy inflicting further pain upon Damen. Enough had been done already. The welts under Laurent’s fingers were impossibly numerous. How had he not died? He should have died.

But if he had died, where would Laurent be now?

With that thought in mind, Laurent poured more oil onto Damen’s back, trying to avoid the tenderest areas, feeling Damen’s taut muscles slowly loosen and relax under his circular strokes, fingers digging in on his shoulders and sides, drawing a low sound from Damen – not one of pain, but of satisfaction, his body arching back into Laurent’s touch gratefully. Laurent had to close his eyes for a second, steeling himself. Damen moved in the pause, stretching luxuriously, and Laurent could feel Damen’s dormant strength under his hands, in shifting, solid muscle.

Laurent silently rubbed the rest of the oil in as fast as possible, until the bottle was empty and Damen was utterly pliant, his breaths even and too-loud in the room. Laurent tossed the bottle onto the floor, rose from the bed, wiped off his hands, and went to the plate next to the sofa, picking up one of the rolls on it and taking a bite. He avoided looking at Damen, not wanting to explain what had just transpired, because if he did it would prove his hatred of Damen had faded to simply dislike. And that…that was unacceptable. Laurent _had_ to hate him. He had to.

But no questions came, and when Laurent cautiously turned back to the bed, Damen was sprawled out on it, oiled back nearly glowing in the sunlight, body half-covered by the blankets, his chest rising and falling slowly, already fast asleep. Laurent blinked. Light still poured into the room; the party was in two hours. But Damen, he realized, must have been exhausted. He didn’t have to like Damen to appreciate the fact that he’d taken down a gigantic, bloodthirsty bear with only a dagger. So Laurent let him sleep, and settled on the sofa, eating his roll quietly.

*

The party was something that both of them dreaded, and it was with the mutual understanding that it was going to be terrible that would allow them to make it through the night. Laurent hoped they would, anyway.

They were already off to a bad start when two slaves entered their quarters half an hour before, bringing gold powder and paint with them, along with more jewelry than any one person should ever wear. “For your pet, ser,” they told Damen (who had just woken up), completely ignoring Laurent.

“No paint,” Damen said after a quick glance at Laurent. “But…keep the glitter.”

Small mercies, Laurent kept telling himself.

So it was that Damen, dressed like a Veretian lord who had tired of sleeves and decent pants, walked into the party with Laurent, dressed like an Akielon pet who had raided several jewelry boxes and been doused in the leftovers from a gold mine.

They were met with applause – different from the Colosseum’s, politer and more refined, but still with genuine excitement and admiration behind it. Well, _Damen_ was met with applause. Laurent was met with _looks_ , the kind of looks that made him press closer to Damen and hope that his proposal to cut off hands still stood. Those looks had been much easier to ignore when he was the Crown Prince of Vere, and could throw punishments and insults around whenever he liked, could make men cower before him in a heartbeat.

But now he could insult and punish no one, and he was the one expected to cower. All he could do was place his trust in the man who had killed his brother.  
It was a truly unfortunate situation. But Laurent was sure it could get worse.

It did. Damen was given a seat next to the head of the table, where Consul Valerius sat, welcoming them over with a wave of his elegant hand. He wore only one ring, Laurent noted – a large ruby, the silver band of the ring intricately woven and softened with age.

They were only given one seat. Laurent had expected this, but it didn’t make him any less upset about having to perch in Damen’s lap, the chiton riding up alarmingly. Damen’s hand curled around his hip, barely touching, more to keep up appearances than to actually hold him in place. Clearly, he was not happy about it either.

Small mercies.

“Damen!” Valerius greeted, offering his ringed hand for Damen to shake. “And your pet. Does he have a name yet, by any chance?” There were soft titters from the others at the table. Laurent blushed. This was not the first they had heard of ‘Damen’s pet,’ then. Lovely.

Damen nodded, tilting his head close to Laurent’s ear. “Why don’t you tell them your name?” he asked.

Laurent bowed his head, keeping his eyes carefully downcast. He wasn’t going to spin more lies than necessary. “Laurent,” he murmured, exaggerating the Veretian pronunciation so that the last half of his name was more of a sensual twist of sound than actual letters.

The Consul repeated it, his pronunciation better than Laurent would have expected. “A marvelous little creature,” Valerius told Damen. “And I must admit, it’s a relief you’ve left him so unmarked. Most of the fighter’s prizes end up a bit…”

“Mangled?” the woman sitting next to him offered sweetly.

Valerius patted her hand. She wore a similar ring, though a more intricate version. “Yes, dear. Precisely.” He turned back to Damen. “My wife, Circe.”

“A pleasure to finally meet you in person,” Circe said to Damen, looking at him through thick, dark lashes, red lips quirked into a sly half-smile. “I look forward to seeing many more performances like today’s, Damen.”

“And I look forward to performing, my Lady,” Damen replied smoothly.

Circe’s smile grew. “You are quite cultured, for an Akielon. It is a pleasant change from the usual types of men at these revelries.” Her gaze flicked purposefully to the other long table in the large hall, at which another victor of the day sat, a mountain of a man with a tangled red beard and a waifish female pet curled in his lap. Laurent could see the cut on her lip and the bruises mottling her neck even from where he sat. Damen must have seen, too, for his hand tightened infinitesimally on Laurent’s waist.

“Thank you, my Lady,” Damen said, and then kitchen slaves swarmed the hall with heavy platters of food and drink, and the talk at the table dissolved into pointless pleasantries, inane anecdotes, and compliments to the chefs. Somewhere along the line, Damen must have observed that the Artesian custom was for masters to feed their pets, because Laurent found thick fingers and a honeyed fig at his lips a few minutes into the meal, and wordlessly opened his mouth, the fruit sweet and rich on his tongue. Damen seemed to enjoy doing this as much as Laurent enjoyed enduring it (which was to say not at all), and after the third time he muttered that Laurent should just take food off his plate if he wanted it.

Laurent _was_ very hungry, and managed to eat more than he’d expected he would, including several more rolls dipped in olive oil, which left Laurent’s fingers slick and sticky. Damen wiped them off with a napkin absentmindedly while chatting with Valerius and one of his friends, and Laurent could feel the stares on him. He suspected most fighters didn’t care if their pets made a mess. They probably preferred it.

Damen gave him sweet wine, which Laurent turned down after two glasses, already feeling his eyelids grow heavy and his body grow lax, slumping bonelessly against Damen’s chest. He was very warm, and Laurent couldn’t quite recall why he’d been so uncomfortable before. He fit snugly into the cradle of Damen’s thighs, and the hand on his waist made him feel secure, even safe. He was tipsy, but it was not an altogether unpleasant feeling.

By the end of the second course, Laurent had regained some clarity, but didn’t protest when Damen said in a low, teasing voice, “Sweetmeat?” lifting the almond confection to Laurent’s lips. Damen seemed surprised when Laurent offered no resistance, tongue curling around his fingers, tasting the salt of Damen’s skin under the syrupiness of the treat. Damen tensed, his breath catching audibly. Laurent hummed and rested his head against Damen’s shoulder.

The elaborate dessert came next, and with it, the night’s entertainment.

Throughout the meal, a small band of musicians had been playing various unfamiliar songs on lutes and lyres, but they were replaced then by a pair of women, one with a drum and the other with an odd sort of flute. They began to play as most of the lights in the hall were extinguished, creating a more intimate atmosphere, and leaving a circle of golden candlelight in the center of the room. The tune was slow and haunting, and Laurent raised his head warily as a small troupe of female dancers slipped into the circle of light with a chorus of small jingles from the bells at their wrists and ankles.

Laurent found the sound irritating, but everyone else at the table seemed enchanted. Laurent doubted it was just because of the bells – the women, five in all, were svelte and striking, three with darker skin and two fair, all dressed in similar outfits of colorful scarves, tassels, and sashes, none of which did very much to actually cover them. Laurent glanced up at Damen, amused by his parted lips and wide eyes as the women began to move, to dance, scarves trailing and bells ringing. He seemed to have fallen into a trance.

In particular, Damen seemed fixated on the fair woman with long blonde curls that flowed out behind her like molten gold as she twirled again and again and again, head falling back and large blue eyes catching the light like jewels. But Laurent suspected Damen was less interested in how aesthetically pleasing she was and more so in the wide curve of her hips and the even larger curve of her chest. She was very curvy. Laurent preferred flat planes himself.

As the music’s tempo increased, the women began to invade each other’s orbits, their bodies weaving together and hands brushing skin suggestively, nimble feet leaping away from offered embraces only to be pulled back in again, lips nearly touching. Laurent had to admit they were actually very skilled dancers, and never missed a step in their increasingly sensual dance. Perhaps Artes was not so different from Vere after all. Laurent idly wondered how far the women were going to take this.

Damen was evidently wondering the same thing, because as the fair woman slipped a thigh between another dancer’s legs, Laurent felt Damen stir in his breeches.

Laurent placed his hand over Damen’s and dug his nails in, warningly. But Damen did not have and never would have the level of control that Laurent had over his arousal, and the women, kissing and twining together now, were not helping. Irked that his comfortable seat had turned lumpy, Laurent shifted. Damen bit his lip, hard.

Laurent paused. The women grasped at each other’s garments, revealing smooth skin little by little. Damen grasped the edge of the table tightly.

Slowly and deliberately, Laurent shifted back against him. Damen’s knuckles turned ivory. Laurent did it again, pressing his body onto the swell of Damen’s cock. It was a game. It was a test. It was…a trust exercise. Laurent wanted to see what Damen would do.

Damen’s hand clamped down on his waist, holding him still. Laurent squirmed to get free, and Damen’s breaths stuttered unevenly.

“I am going to _kill you_ ,” he muttered into Laurent’s ear, but it was not a real threat. He was exasperated, not angry. Laurent smirked and settled obediently, watching the dancers progress to full nudity. Laurent waited a few minutes, until Damen probably thought the torture was over, and then moved again atop him with a sinuous roll of his hips.

Damen growled. Actually _growled_ , like an animal, and Laurent was shocked by the flare of arousal that went through him at the sound, and it only grew when Damen grasped his waist with both hands, pinning him in place and completely preventing any further wriggling. His strength was not dormant now.

Laurent sat still, stunned and off-kilter, for the remaining duration of the dance.

When it was over, the lamps were lit again and the crowd applauded, the other musicians returning and starting up a much less carnal melody. Damen had managed to regain his composure and resumed his conversation with one of the nobles about an Akielon sport called the okton. Laurent, however, was still dazed, and dismayed to realize that he was half-hard under the loose chiton. He willed it away within a few minutes, but it was still upsetting.

People started to leave, trickling out into the palace halls until only about half of their table was left. Damen was about to rise and excuse the two of them when a hush fell over the hall, and Laurent looked up to see Empress Liviana herself walking across the marble floors towards them, her guards lurking in the shadows behind her. He was intrigued by the monarch – she, like him, seemed to prefer a more ascetic approach to her appearance, and was decorated only by the gleaming crown on her head and a simple string of freshwater pearls around her neck. Her gown was long and a shade darker than her skin, low-cut but made modest by a gray silk cloak draped artfully about her shoulders.

She looked very young. Younger than the Vaskian empress, and certainly younger than the Regent. Maybe not much older than Laurent; around Damen’s age perhaps. But she carried herself with the assurance that she was the most powerful person there, and her hazel eyes swept over them with an air of cool indifference.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Valerius said as soon as he saw her, hastily rising along with Circe and bowing before her. Damen did the same, and Laurent managed a clumsy dip of his head. “I wasn’t expecting you to attend the festivities tonight!”

Her expression did not change as she said, “But of course. You spoke so highly of the victor, and if you are truly buying him then I will meet him sooner or later. It might as well be tonight.”

“It is an honor,” Damen said.

Liviana raised an eyebrow, somehow managing to seem like she was looking down on Damen though he was at least a foot taller. “How are you finding Artes so far?”

Damen blinked. “I…it is certainly impressive. I cannot help but marvel at the apparent wealth of your kingdom, and wonder how I never heard word of it before.”

Her expression did change then, a dark shadow passing over it. Her lips pursed. “Our Empire is a well-kept secret for reasons best left unsaid, Akielon. But you are correct in assuming our wealthiness. The gods watch over us, and bring good fortune to these lands.”

Damen’s jaw twitched at the mention of the gods. Laurent had heard some talk of Artes’s pantheon, though not enough to form an opinion of them, as Damen clearly had.

“And the gods watch over you too,” Liviana continued. “They have spared your life in the ring and rewarded you with one of your nation’s sworn enemies as a bed slave. Life is good, Akielon. Do not squander it.” She looked at Laurent for a moment, and he could have sworn there was a spark of sympathy in her steely eyes. He shuffled closer to Damen’s side, keeping his head down, and her head tilted as if confused. She looked back at Damen. “And perhaps they watch over your prize as well.”

Damen inclined his head. “I hope they continue to favor us, then.”

“Let us hope.” The Empress stepped away. “But I have delayed you long enough. You have other admirers, victor, ones whom will surely pique your interest more than I. Until next time, then.” She left them in a sibilant swish of skirts, retreating back to the shadows where her entourage waited. In her wake, two women from the night’s dance came forward, the blonde and her olive-skinned partner. They had dressed again, but in a way that suggested they would be baring themselves again soon.

Valerius and Circe excused themselves, as did the other few remaining lords and ladies, leaving Damen and Laurent in a mostly-empty hall with the women. The blonde one, the braver one, sidled up to Damen first, reaching out and placing a single finger on his chest. “We have heard tales of Akielon stamina,” she purred, voice accented heavily, full lips smiling. “We would like to see if there is any truth to them.”

The other woman approached Laurent, eyeing him critically. “Your prize is welcome to join us. Veretians are so pretty, under all those clothes.”

Laurent wasn’t sure what he’d expected to happen, but it was not for Damen to step forward confidently, smiling back and extending a hand to the blonde. “It would be my pleasure,” he replied. He glanced over his shoulder. “Laurent, come.”

Laurent did not want to, but he had no choice except to follow, trying to avoid the other woman’s curious caresses. Laurent was still dizzy and fuzzy from the wine, and lost track of how many halls they went down before the women stopped at a doorway covered by various hanging beads and drapes. “After you,” the blonde murmured, and Damen started forward, hesitating when he saw Laurent hanging back unhappily.

“Laurent?” he asked.

“No,” Laurent said, leaning against the wall, arms folded. The women were taken aback by this display of defiance, and edged away from him.

Damen blinked, a certain understanding passing over his face. “Fine. Stay here,” he ordered, and then he went through the chiming curtain of beads, the women close behind.

Laurent scowled at the marble floor, his aggravation increasing as noises began to filter through the flimsy beads and drapes – moans, soft and female, and then some with a lower male timbre, louder than the rest. Laurent willed himself to die. Several more minutes of that, and he stepped away from the wall, shaking his head. Like hell he was going to stay there. He was tired and cross and finding it difficult to stand up. Maybe he’d had more to drink than he’d thought.

But he was fairly confident he could make it back to Damen’s quarters. Possibly. Oh, it couldn’t be _that_ difficult, could it? He just had to retrace their steps, and then a little past the large hall where the party had been held, and…well, he would come to it eventually.

It was a relief to get away from the sounds of the literal orgy Damen had willingly attended, but Laurent disliked how exposed he felt without Damen at his side, which only served to make him even angrier, because he did not _need_ Damen, he did not need _anyone_. He was not a child, and he could take care of himself. He walked faster down the hall, past a plethora of rooms, some with open doors containing people who gave him odd looks. A few slaves passed him and even they stared, unused to seeing a pet without its leash. Laurent felt like he might vomit. He walked faster. The white walls hurt his eyes.

He reached the hall where the party had been, now stripped and empty, the lamps cold and dark. There was a single bell on the floor, a bright silver pinpoint in the dimness. Laurent had an absurd urge to pick it up and take it with him. He did not. He was adorned with enough shiny things to last a lifetime, anyway.

But perhaps he should have stopped to get the bell, because just after he’d passed through the hall, he nearly ran into a man dressed in finery, his breath saturated with wine as he leaned towards Laurent. “Are you lost?” he slurred, and Laurent inched away. The man had a pinched face, as if perpetually tasting something sour. “You look a little lost.”

“I’m not lost,” Laurent snapped, forgetting the part he was playing for a moment. Again, softer, “I’m not lost.”

The man raised a hand, and Laurent thought, _No,_ but he touched Laurent’s face nonetheless, his palm dry and rasping against Laurent’s cheek. “Yes, you are,” he said. “But that’s alright. I’ll take care of you.”

Laurent wrenched himself out of the man’s grasp. “My master ordered me to return to his quarters. I must be going.”

“Must you?” the man mocked. “Who’s your master, then?”

“Damen,” Laurent said, though it physically pained him to do so. “One of the victors of the fighting pits –”

The man laughed. “A prize? Oh, you’re wasted there.” And then he had yanked Laurent to him, up against the wall, and Laurent’s world was blurry and tilting dangerously on its head and when the man grabbed his wrists he could not _think_ and that was the most terrifying part of all.

“Damen’s master is Consul Valerius,” he finally managed to say as the man leaned in close. “He will be displeased –”

The man paused, and then chuckled. “Valerius doesn’t mind sharing his pets,” he said, brushing Laurent’s hair out of his eyes and leering down at him. “Besides, I think it’s worth the risk –”

“Get away from him.”

Laurent looked up blearily. Damen was stalking towards them with a furious gleam in his eyes; vest half buttoned, sweat drying on his collarbones, hair an utter mess. The man stepped back from Laurent but kept a hand on his shoulder, eyeing Damen with disdain. “I presume you are the fighter who won him? I was just telling your pet that –”

“Shut up,” Damen interrupted, large hands curling into large fists as he reached them, and that made the man let go of Laurent entirely, eyes wide.

“Alright, alright, I know you fighters tend to see violence as the only solution, but let’s just talk –”

“Oh, we’re talking,” Damen said, low and deadly, looming over him. “You ever touch him or try to touch him again and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t even _thought_ about it. Are we understood?”

The man nodded hastily, and stumbled away, practically running back the way he’d come.

Laurent slid down the wall a little, grimacing. “I didn’t need your help,” he muttered. “I had it under control.”

Damen glared at him. “I told you to stay for a reason,” he retorted. “What were you thinking, wandering off, looking like that? You’re lucky I got here when I did.”

Laurent sniffed. “Maybe I wanted him to touch me,” he said, a bit petulantly.

Damen scoffed and grabbed Laurent’s limp arm. “You don’t want anyone to touch you,” he retorted. Laurent swayed. Damen gaped at him. “Are you drunk? _Laurent._ ” He said it in a patronizing yet somehow motherly tone that made Laurent snort and nearly fall over again. “You only had two glasses,” Damen said. “And you can’t even walk.”

“Guess you’ll have to carry me,” Laurent said. “Oops.”

“Two glasses,” Damen said. His tone softened. “But it was strong wine.”

“I don’t drink,” Laurent mumbled, flushing in unexpected embarrassment. “I don’t…don’t like it. Don’t like being…like this.”

Damen sighed and looped an arm around him, supporting his newly-clumsy body. Laurent clung to him for support. Damen smelled like perfume and sweat, a heady, cloying mixture that just made him more disoriented. “It’s not much farther,” Damen told him as he half-dragged Laurent down the hall.

Laurent hummed, feet tripping over each other. “How were the whores?” he asked blithely.

Damen hefted him up a little more. “Disappointed that I had to leave because my pet can’t obey simple orders.”

“And disappointed by Akielon stamina or lack thereof?” Laurent countered.

Damen elbowed him lightly. “Keep walking,” he murmured.

Laurent did, frustrated that Damen never seemed to rise to the bait anymore.

“You just need to make your jibes more creative,” Damen said, amused. Laurent swore. Had he said that aloud?

Damen shook his head, stopping in front of a vaguely familiar door and herding Laurent inside. It clicked shut behind them, leaving them in blessedly cool and silent darkness, and Laurent made an uncoordinated beeline for the bed. Damen caught his arm. Laurent looked at him grumpily. “What _now_?”

“You’ll get powder all over the pillows in this state,” Damen said, and Laurent stood there in bewilderment as he went to the bath and returned with a wet cloth, the touch of it shockingly cold on Laurent’s shoulders. Damen wiped away the gold carefully, dampening the edges of the chiton, and when Damen brushed it over Laurent’s face he could not suppress a shiver, his eyes unfocused and uncomprehending as he gazed at the Akielon. The more powder Damen removed, the more exposed Laurent felt.

“The jewelry, too,” Damen said, taking the fine golden necklaces and heavy wrist bangles and sapphire earrings off, one by one. The only thing he left was the collar, a twin to Damen’s own. Damen nudged him towards the bed. “Now sleep,” he urged, and Laurent went to the bed on wobbly knees, half-falling into the sheets. He almost expected the bed to dip behind him, for a hand to reach out and pull him back, but there was nothing except the pad of Damen’s feet as he went to the bath to change.

Laurent rolled over, facing the bedside table. There were two glasses there which had not been there before, and thoughtlessly he reached out and took one, taking a long, drowsy draught. Then the aftertaste hit and Laurent nearly knocked it over in his haste to put it back, cursing his stupidity. Laurent should have known as soon as he’d smelled it, but his senses were dulled by alcohol and by the time he noticed the pink residue on the rim it was too late.

Laurent wordlessly curled up on his side of the bed, and closed his eyes, hoping for sleep to find his head before the drug did. Hoping that he would make it through the night untouched and dreading that he would not.

But the last time…the last time, Damen had controlled himself more than Laurent. He had tried to stop him. He had stopped Laurent from making even more of a fool out of himself, even if he’d done so by –

Laurent buried his face in his hands. Now was not the time to think of that moment of weakness, of how right it had felt to be crushed against the wall, cornered and caught with strong arms and hands, hands that slipped under satin and found their grip easily, sweet sensation right where he needed it –

Laurent squeezed his eyes shut so tightly they ached. He would not let Damen touch him again. He would not touch himself. He would just lie there, willing it away, telling himself it was all in his head even as the drug thrummed insistently through his veins. But it was not nearly as much as before, and this time he was able to resist, and sleep came swiftly, and for a while it was deep and dreamless and…and then it wasn’t.

When Laurent dreamed, which was rarely, it was often of memories from a simpler time – of Auguste, of his childhood, of his father – or they were darker fragments of his past, stitched together in patchwork nightmares that left him drenched in a cold sweat upon awakening.

But this dream was neither of those; though at first he thought it must be a nightmare.

Damen – _no, no, Damianos, his name is Damianos_ – was over him, one hand tangled roughly in his hair and the other tight around his neck. Laurent couldn’t breathe, could do nothing against the sheer strength of the Akielon, and there was a strange light in the depths of his dark eyes that Laurent could not look away from.

“You’re weak,” Damen told him, leaning down, lips brushing his ear, his brow, his cheek; his lips. “You’ve always been weak.”

Laurent tried to protest, tried to throw him off, but his weight was hot and crushing and Laurent felt his legs open helplessly at the press of Damen’s arousal against him. He could say nothing; his voice was gone. Damen’s mouth was hot against his skin, teeth grazing his throat, hips rolling in a practiced rhythm.

Damen moved closer, until their noses were nearly touching. “Why did you think you could ever kill me, a true king of Akielos?” he murmured, tilting his head, mocking. “You, Laurent; the weak, frigid, bookish second-born.” His lips curved up in a cruel line. His fingers pressed against the knobs of Laurent’s spine. “I could break you in two right now if I wanted to,” he said sweetly.

“Please,” Laurent said, and he didn’t know what he was pleading for, exactly. “ _Please –_ ”

“I think you want me to,” Damen hissed, right into his ear, and Laurent’s body arched up into the curve of him, helpless. “I think you want me to break you…” He drew back suddenly, disappointment etched into his expression. “Except you’re already broken.”

Laurent awoke with a gasp.

Beside him, Damen was sound asleep, on his back, faint moonlight casting his features in a silvery radiance.

Laurent could feel the wetness on his thighs and stomach under the chiton, hot shame rushing through him as he rolled out of bed, his head already pounding slightly, his skin clammy and too-warm. He washed himself clean with the same cloth that sparkled with golden powder, uncaring of the glittering speckles it left behind, just wishing himself to be rid of the evidence of his weakness.

He stared at himself in the mirror, a pale creature with violet circles under weary eyes and cracked, chapped lips that had forgotten how to smile.

_You’re already broken._

Laurent turned away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU WANTED LONG CHAPTERS, YOU GOT 'EM  
> (sorry dear lord I doubt any chapters will exceed this length or even come close. But Laurent has a lot of thoughts and feelings so I thought I'd indulge him and this 8k monstrosity happened. Congrats if you read it.)
> 
> A bit of a time jump is going to happen in Ch.5, which means Laurent's complicated ~feelings~ will have time to sort themselves out a little better. Damen, on the other hand, is not a complicated dude. Good old Damen.


	5. Epiphaneia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _EPIPHANEIA: a manifestation, a realization, or a sudden brightness._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY I LIED THIS CHAPTER IS EVEN LONGER THAN CH4. I even tried to shorten it while editing, but to no avail. These boys are just SO FUN to write about, with all their feelings and adventures and shit. Plus, I'm trying to keep their character development as realistic as possible. It bugs me when Laurent gets too chill with Damen too fast, yknow? Like, the dude killed his only brother. That's kind of a big thing to forgive lol.
> 
> Hopefully you find it as entertaining to read as I did to write it? Again, THIS IS SO LONG, AND I AM DEEPLY SORRY. (& thank you for all the lovely comments on ch4 i love love love hearing your feedback)

Damen never thought he would actually start to not hate being a slave in a far-off land where he spent his days publicly fighting every manner of monster to the death, but after a week in Artes he had to admit it wasn’t an entirely terrible way to live. It was better than Vere, anyway, where he had spent most of his time languishing away in a locked cell or being publicly humiliated. What he really would have preferred was his home in Ios, but that seemed so distant that he sometimes found himself forgetting what the palace looked like, what the waves sounded like; sometimes he even found himself forgetting his birthright.

Being with Myron and Ivar helped him to remember. They, like him, had managed to survive so far, and the three of them maintained a shaky coalition; fully expecting that one day at least one of them would die. Or, worse, they might be forced to fight and kill each other. But Damen almost never fought men – Valerius had apparently decided he was better suited to go up against beasts, which probably amused Laurent to no end.

Laurent stayed in the palace while Damen was training in the Ludus Magnus, and was brought out to watch him perform in the late afternoon. Their days fell into a kind of routine – Damen would rise early, be taken to the Ludus Magnus, spar and speak with Myron and Ivar, take part in the later fights, win, and carry Laurent off to the baths amidst resounding cheers as he had on their first day. But unlike that first day, Damen never forced Laurent to attend him again. Laurent seemed to expect Damen to take advantage of him at every possible opportunity, which was…troubling. It made Damen wonder how many dishonorable men Laurent must have grown up with.

It made Damen wonder if he’d killed the only honorable man in Laurent’s life.

While Damen was sparring and sweating and fighting daily, Laurent was apparently kept in Damen’s quarters under lock and key. Laurent was understandably not happy with this arrangement – not only did it make learning the layout of the palace and planning an escape difficult; it bored him to death. Some people could laze around in bed all day doing nothing. Laurent was not one of those people.

At first it was satisfying, to think of Laurent suffering the same way Damen had when he’d been left to languish in his cell in Vere, but then…after the second day, Damen asked Valerius if it would be possible to provide Laurent with books of some sort to ease the monotony. Damen never saw the books arrive, but that day Laurent snapped very little, and in the baths after the fights he silently snatched the cloth from Damen and washed his back with warm oils and gentle hands. Damen held his breath, afraid that the slightest movement might make him stop.

He knew what this was – a favor for a favor, nothing more. That was just how things were with Laurent. Black and white; give and take. Better than an eye for an eye, anyway.

“These are not healing well,” Laurent said in a low voice, cloth stilling, water dripping down Damen’s spine. It was true; his back ached more and more with the loss of Paschal’s salve, and the welts had started to reopen with the violent movement of the fights.

“They don’t hurt,” Damen lied. Laurent made an unconvinced sound, and rinsed the oil off, and they didn’t speak of it until the fourth day, when Laurent did it again, but this time Damen almost cried out in relief at the sensation, the oil thicker and blessedly cool.

Laurent noticed. “I requested an ointment similar to Paschal’s,” he said. “You will be able to fight better now that there is no pain hindering you.”

“Pain?” Damen huffed, craning his head back to look at Laurent. “There was no pain – ow!”

Laurent, who had just smacked his scarred shoulder with the cloth, raised an eyebrow. “Certain?”

Damen got the message, and accepted the uncharacteristically thoughtful act without further complaint.

After that, they continued to heal rather than hurt, and just in time, because on the next day, the fifth day, Damen was presented with a sword in the arena instead of his usual dagger. The same fair, muscled woman from the first fight, whom Damen had come to know as Petra, handed it to him as he stood on the platform.

“I will not lie,” Petra said, “this will not be easy.” She paused, offered him an echo of a smile. “Even for you.”

Damen hefted the sword in his hands, pleased by its weight and balance. “Oh? How so?”

Petra hesitated. Her mouth tightened. “Do not forget that every pack has an alpha,” she said.

Damen’s lips parted in understanding. “Wolves.”

Petra inclined her head. “Many.”

The platform rose. Damen braced himself. The trap door opened, and he was greeted not with the sound of applause but with a deafening chorus of howls.

He had dealt with wolves before, on hunts where curious packs had tried to steal kills and had to be chased off or killed themselves. But as he looked out at the arena, he saw with a sinking feeling that, like the bear, these wolves were not like anything he’d seen before. There were a dozen of them at least, arranged in a rough, bristling semicircle across from him, heads lowered and tails raised. Most were mottled gray or black, and all stood at least a meter high at the shoulder, many were even larger.

Damen squared his shoulders and brandished the sword in a purely defensive position. He wasn’t going to charge into a pack of wolves. No. He was going to let them come to him.

He glanced briefly at the stands, where Laurent was seated in his usual row, watching Damen with an edge to his insouciant gaze as he counted how many opponents Damen was up against. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. _Don’t you dare lose, brute,_ his eyes said. _You know what’s at stake._

Damen thought, for a fleeting moment, of what would happen should he fall in the arena. Of what Laurent would do; of what would happen to him. Would Laurent shed tears for him? No. Laurent did not cry; Damen could not imagine it. He might scream or sob, put on a show of grief and fear as his fighter fell, but this was all a game and that would not be the end of it, not for Laurent.

Even if Damen died he had no doubt Laurent would continue to plan an escape. But would Laurent be able to leave this place before he changed hands, and was won by another victor? Would he manage to escape before his position as a pet was fully realized?

Damen doubted Laurent would be given books then.

The wolves growled, shifting and pacing as one. They had not attacked yet because they, too, were waiting. They associated man with danger, and the sword with death, and they, like him, were no fools. But there was only one of him, and he saw the moment their ranks began to close in, their yellow eyes fixed on the blade and on the weak points of his body.

All except one large black wolf, who met his eyes, staring him down fearlessly, lips peeling back from its teeth and ears pricked as it circled him. Damen stared back, making his intention clear. The wolves growled and whined restively. A challenge.

In the wild, they wouldn’t meet such a challenge. In the wild, they would flee to protect the pack. But they had been caged and chained and starved – Damen could see their pelts clinging to their ribs – and they were desperate to regain lost pride, to taste blood, to kill men. The black wolf lunged.

Damen barely avoided being knocked over, slamming the flat of his blade against the alpha’s lithe body, feeling it grapple against him with snapping jaws and scrabbling paws, fighting to get to his throat, claws tearing at the leather armor. The others growled as Damen slowly turned the blade, the first blood staining the sand as the alpha threw itself against the edge of the sword, teeth grazing Damen’s shoulder with a sharp sting before it finally fell back, crouching low and snarling. Its blood dripped; its teeth were stained. It retreated, eyes a glaring, murderous warning.

The rest of the pack was on him before he could even blink. Teeth and claws and lithe muscle and raw strength surrounded him like a tidal wave and all Damen could do was slice and kick and knock away jaws before they closed around limbs, struggling to keep his footing as the wolves leapt at him again and again, going for his legs, trying to topple him.

The bodies of wolves fell from time to time with wet thumps and thin whimpers, and Damen did not know how he had not been bitten and taken down yet; he only knew that he had to stay standing, he had to keep slashing and stabbing and kicking because if he went to the wolves, Laurent would too.

The wolves’ howls had changed from threatening to plaintive, the three intact survivors retreating from the bloodied man with tails between their legs, followed by two others who had been maimed by the man’s cruel sword, legs or flanks cut and bleeding out sluggishly as they panted their last, frantic breaths. And still the alpha stood, padding towards him, past the corpses of its pack, fur standing on end and eyes bright with that same ferocity, but with an unexpected intelligence, too.

Damen expected the second attack. He caught the alpha on the end of his sword, the tip driving into its belly as it leapt in one last aborted attempt at his throat. The brightness in its eyes faded as it slid down the blade and then into the dust, falling alongside its family, pink tongue lolling and black fur darkening. The survivors huddled at the far end of the arena, cornered and afraid, their haunches low and eyes on him and his sword, flat and terrified.

Damen stepped forward. They growled, but there was no real fire behind it, just fear. The crowd, lusting for more blood as always, roared and chanted for him to gut them, but they were a distant sound as he approached the wolves. It would be a mercy to kill them. If he did not, two of them would die slowly from their wounds and the others would likely just be thrown in with another fighter.

They must have been a beautiful sight to behold in the wild, a pack of shadows given shape.

Damen made it quick. The crowd cheered. He stared at the wolves at his feet, numb. Wolves were not unlike soldiers, he thought.

The scar on his collar ached suddenly with a phantom pain, and he stumbled back, raising his head, accidentally meeting Laurent’s eye as he was brought out to the edge of the arena. Laurent was ashen, and when Damen reached for him he flinched away slightly, shoved forward again by the impatient guard. Damen picked him up. His body draped limply over Damen’s shoulder, and when Damen carried him away, away from the carnage and cheers, down the tunnel and into the baths, he felt Laurent begin to shake.

Damen released him immediately. Laurent’s hair was in his face, which was tilted away. “Are you –”

Laurent’s head jerked up, eyes rimmed with red and cheeks flushed. “You reek of death,” Laurent spat. “I suppose it’s too much to ask for an Akielon to kill with any kind of finesse.”

Damen’s mouth opened, then closed at the unexpected outburst. “They were coming at me from all sides,” he retorted. “I didn’t exactly have time to be fancy; my apologies, Your Highness.”

Laurent sneered. “Do you fight men the same way? Fumbling and brutish, using sheer force and savagery to overpower any actual skill? Gutting them like pigs and –”

“That’s unfair.” Damen frowned at him. “I fight men with honor.”

“Honor,” Laurent repeated hollowly. “Is that what you call it.”

“I know it’s a term Veretians are unfamiliar with,” Damen said.

Laurent’s face grew blotchy with anger. His eyes were shiny. Damen wondered if he would have to rescind his previous theory about Laurent never crying.

Damen paused. “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me. I…am sure _some_ Veretians fight with honor.” Laurent’s brows drew together. “But something tells me you’re not among them.”

At that, Laurent smiled, grim and wry. “No,” he said. “Men who fight honorably get killed.”

Damen blinked. “I haven’t gotten killed,” he said.

Laurent gave him a strange look, something like surprised familiarity flickering in his eyes. “Not yet,” he said.

Damen thought for a moment that his words were a threat, but they sounded more resigned than reproving. Not wanting to provoke Laurent further, Damen set about removing his armor, which _was_ saturated in more blood and viscera than usual. His arms and legs were flecked with dark droplets, and when he raised the cloth to his face it came away red. Once he was clean, he could see where the wolves had torn at him – nothing too serious; a few gashes on his legs, scratches on his arms, and the nip from the alpha on his shoulder that he washed carefully in the warm water.

Damen was reveling in the steam on his skin, eyes half-shut, when a warm cloth touched his back and he started, glancing back at Laurent with surprise. He was spreading the salve methodically, strands of damp yellow hair falling into his face as he avoided meeting Damen’s gaze. Laurent’s hand moved almost mechanically, making the act more clinical than intimate.

“How do you manage to bring the salve here every day?” Damen asked after a beat. The precious bottle was usually kept in Damen’s quarters, yet it always ended up back in the baths.

Laurent kept his eyes downcast, but his hand faltered. “I bring it with me when I am brought here every day,” he said. “Before the fights; to be…prepared.” There was no inflection to his tone, but his hand was trembling on Damen’s back.

Damen’s eyes widened. “They’re still – doing that to you? Every day?” He stepped away from Laurent, turning to face him, thinking little of the position until Laurent stepped back warily. “Why didn’t you say something; I could have –”

“Why didn’t I say something? To _you_?” Laurent rolled his eyes, though he looked a bit uncomfortable. “Oh, Damen, I can’t think of _anything_ that would make me reluctant to tell you that slaves were preparing me daily _for you._ Nothing at all.”

Damen sighed. “We’ve been over this, Laurent. You…you don’t have to fear me.”

“Says the man who just took down thirteen wolves singlehandedly,” Laurent scoffed, wading away from him, the sheer white cloth swirling around him in the water. He went up the steps, winding a towel around his shoulders and settling on the edge of the bath, legs crossed. “I don’t fear you. I wasn’t the one on the cross, now was I?”

Damen leaned against the wall. “I could ask them to stop preparing you,” he offered.

Laurent snorted. “So they can all think you prefer to take me dry?”

Damen was going to get used to Laurent’s foul mouth someday. Today was not that day. “No,” he said, only slightly strangled. “I could just tell them I prefer to do it myself, or something along those lines. If you would like.”

Laurent’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you do that?” he asked. “Why do you care?”

Damen was sore and tired. He shook his head, going up the steps and grabbing a towel for himself. “Not everyone has a hundred hidden motives for doing decent things,” he said over his shoulder. “Besides, I am well aware of how unpleasant the process is.”

Laurent’s mouth thinned at the mention of the ‘fights’ in Vere. “You should want revenge for that,” he said slowly. “You should want me to suffer the same way.”

Damen raised an eyebrow. “What good would that do? I don’t want you to suffer. What I _want_ is to go home. I think you want the same.”

Laurent looked down, stretching a leg out, tentatively dipping his toes into the water. “If you asked them to stop,” he finally said, “I…would appreciate it.”

“Then I will ask them,” Damen said, “and they will stop.”

*

That night, instead of the usual celebrations, Valerius came to Damen’s quarters personally with a small group of guards and the first chance they had gotten so far to leave the palace.

“Today was a day of many victories, but more importantly it is a festival day,” Valerius explained cheerfully as Damen and Laurent were escorted past the celebration hall and further, further than they had ever gone before. Laurent was tense at his side, eyes darting here and there as they passed new halls, doors, rooms and courtyards, no doubt mapping out the palace’s layout in that tangled mind of his. “Today is the festival Lupercalia, which honors the god Lupercus.” At Damen’s blank look, Valerius added, “A god of agriculture and fertility. He takes the form of a wolf.”

“Oh,” said Damen, wincing. “That’s…unfortunate.”

Valerius chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Damen. The wolves you slayed today were a sacrifice to Lupercus. You have likely won his favor after such a display. And so, you will be joining me on a week-long excursion to the Proving Grounds. It is a large meadow about a three hour ride from the capital, and I think it’s about time you had a chance to truly admire the beauty of Artes.”

“That is generous of you,” Damen said, dazed at the thought of being free of the palace and Colosseum walls. “What does the festival entail, if I may ask?”

Valerius waved a hand. “Oh, general revelry throughout the week; lots of drinking and feasting, among other things.” He glanced pointedly at Laurent. “But the main event is the horse races and the wrestling matches; I would like you to compete. I have heard wrestling is a popular sport in Akielos, is it not?”

“Yes,” Damen said. “But it is traditionally done in the nude –”

Valerius nodded. “As it is here. The strength of the body is better exhibited that way, don’t you think? Ah, here we are.” The guards flung open the large doors they had stopped in front of, and the wide palace drive lay ahead of them, a large group of horses and carriages waiting, some occupied and others waiting to be. At the front of the entourage, the Empress sat atop a regal black stallion, dressed in a riding cloak and leathers.

Valerius chuckled at his gawking. “Empress Liviana is not fond of carriages or gowns. I suggest not staring too much, or she will force you to walk. And that would be a shame, because I am providing a marvelous steed for you. Here he is.” Valerius led them down the steps, across the cobbles, to a handsome bay gelding who tossed his head as they approached. “A large breed, well-suited to a man of your stature and his prize.” At Damen’s surprised look, he paused. “Unless you intend to have him walk alongside you or stay with the other pets? I assumed you would want him as close as possible.”

Damen quickly regained his composure. “Yes, as close as possible, thank you.” If they were to pull off an escape, it would be easier if they stayed together. He reached out, stroking the horse’s broad neck. Its head curved around curiously, snuffling at his hand and then dipping down to Laurent, who stroked its nose. The horse snorted happily and nosed at Laurent’s hair, as if expecting to find apples hidden in his curls.

Valerius smiled. “It seems he’s already chosen his favorite. We will be off shortly; my carriage is the closest to you should you need me for any reason. If your pet becomes fatigued, he is more than welcome to recover there. Sometimes the Artesian heat and humidity is just too much for Veretians.”

He left them standing beside the horse, which had started trying to eat Laurent’s hair, perhaps mistaking it for hay. Damen patted the saddle. “C’mon, get up before he gives you premature balding.”

Laurent shoved the horse’s head away, but he was smiling, and his cheeks were flushed. Unbidden, Damen remembered the hunt in Vere just before he and Laurent had been sent away, and as Laurent swung himself into the saddle Damen eyed him a bit cautiously.

“Try not to ruin this horse, too,” he told Laurent before climbing up to sit behind him. Laurent turned his head slightly, glowering. “Yes, the dogsman told me what happened to your old mare. Blood from flank to shoulder from the spur, I heard.”

When Laurent replied, it was low and furious. “You’re an idiot,” he said. “My uncle poisoned her before the race.” He inhaled sharply. “She never stood a chance.”

Damen sat there stupidly for a few moments. “I –”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Laurent said evenly. He shifted in the saddle, touching the gelding’s mane lightly. “When my horse isn’t dying and I’m not being crushed by an Akielon, I’m a very good rider. Better than you, I would wager.”

Damen wasn’t so sure about that, but nudged Laurent’s foot and said, “I’ll take that bet. The reins will be easier for you to handle in this position, anyway.”

Laurent paused, and then his body started shaking and it took Damen a few moments to realize it was from silent laughter. “You would have your prize take up the reins?” he snorted. “Really? I don’t think pets are trained in _this_ sort of riding, Damen.”

Damen rolled his eyes. “That,” he said, “was terrible. Absolutely terrible.”

Laurent, still snickering, tossed him the reins. “I’ve forgotten how, suddenly,” he said, batting his eyes. “Oh, don’t let me fall off!” He lurched to the side, and Damen caught his waist with one hand, the protruding jut of his hipbone feeling small and delicate against Damen’s palm through Laurent’s thin clothes. Laurent went abruptly still, and Damen pulled his hand away, an apology on the tip of his tongue.

“Don’t,” Laurent said, as if sensing it. Up ahead, the Empress had urged her stallion into a trot, and slowly the rest of the entourage followed in a rolling wave of motion. “Just…go.”

Mourning the moment of easy amusement gone as soon as it had come, Damen kicked the horse’s sides, and they started forward.

*

The road to the Proving Grounds led them through the entirety of the capital, past crowds of Artesians who waved excitedly from their windows at their Empress and her Senate. Liviana transformed at once into a smiling, radiant ruler, waving back to her subjects and blowing a kiss to a gaggle of children who ran out into the street with toy swords clutched in their hands.

They respected her, adored her, and for a moment Damen could imagine that there was no dark intrigue and twisted intent in this kingdom, that everything was exactly what it seemed – happy people and a benevolent Empress who rode through their streets on horseback, unafraid of unrest.

But Damen was no longer so naïve, and as they reached the fringes of the capital their welcome was less enthusiastic, and the streets were lined with refuse and chary faces, and it was a relief when they were outside the city gates with the open road ahead of them.

From the High Road, which ran out of the capital and along the cliffs above the docks, Damen could see the endless ocean and the endless ships which came and went upon its waves, sailing in from all directions. But Damen could see no land on the horizon, nothing but blue, and he forced himself to look away for fear he would begin to realize exactly how far away from home he actually was.

He looked instead at the land, which was much easier on the eyes – lush green forests like the jungles he’d seen on the docks, growing denser and nearer the farther they rode. The man beside Damen told him the jungle was called Silva Ciminia, and only fools dared to tread there.

“Is it dangerous?” Damen asked, his interest piqued. Laurent, too, listened with a tilted head.

The man shivered. “Dangerous, aye. Full of beasts like the ones in the Colosseum. But it’s not the beasts you got to fear. It’s the spirits.”

“The…spirits.” Damen repeated.

“Aye. The Ciminia is ancient ground, full of spirits – whether they be those of the dead or the gods or both, none can say. But they don’t take kindly to trespassers. People go missing there, nine times out of ten. I tell you, it’s no place for us mortals.”

“I see,” Damen said. “Thank you for the warning.”

But eventually the jungle was overtaken by gently sloping hills, and the hills became wooded and that forest was Silva Arsia, a rather normal forest not overrun by malevolent beings whose timber was used to build Artesian ships. It was along the fringes of Arsia where the Proving Grounds lay, a vast field already dotted with tents and stalls and animals and racetracks and fighting rings and commoners who had arrived long before the inhabitants of the palace. The sun was low on the horizon by the time they arrived.

The Empress swung herself off of her steed easily, handing the reins off to a hapless servant before disappearing into the sea of tents, guards in tow. Damen took the hint and swung himself out of the saddle, offering Laurent a hand (he coolly ignored it, dismounting with practiced grace).

Valerius’s carriage, along with all the other carriages, halted, and when Valerius emerged from the gaudy blue and gold vehicle it was with Circe and a wobbly-kneed pet who stared at Damen fearfully when Valerius reconvened with him. Valerius stroked the pet’s dark hair absently and with revulsion, Damen noticed the pet’s swollen lips and stained garments.

“I trust your journey was pleasant?” Valerius said as a servant led Damen’s horse away. “Come, your tent is next to mine, near the center of the Grounds.” Noticing Damen’s gaze, he chuckled. “This is Auriel. He was a recent shipment from Akielos, just like you.” Auriel’s hazel eyes widened slightly, fear momentarily replaced by awe as he peered shyly at Damen. “I’ve never been overly fond of how passive Akielon pets are, though. No fight left in them. He’ll likely be sent to the main pets’ tent…unless you’d like a turn first?”

Laurent, suddenly, was pressed against Damen’s side, an arm snaking around his waist and an icy glare directed at the pet. Auriel shrank back, eyes wide, and Valerius chuckled. “Your prize has taken quite a liking to you, hasn’t he? It’s not often that happens. I heard he was a great deal of trouble back in Vere…it’s good he’s realized his place again.”

“Oh, he has,” Damen said. Laurent pinched him, hard. Auriel stared at Laurent with blatant terror. Valerius, still spewing innuendos, led them to their tent. Damen sighed. It was going to be a long week.

*

Their tent was not nearly as lavish as the tents Damen was used to being given, but considering they were both slaves…it was not bad at all. The tent was small, barely tall enough for Damen to stand and with only enough room for a trunk filled with clothes, a rickety table with a lamp atop it, a small parcel with (of course) a few bottles of oil, and a pile of blankets and pillows vaguely reminiscent of a bed.

Laurent, without a word, collapsed into the tangle of blankets with a small thump. Damen stretched, easing the soreness of the fight and the ride out of his muscles. “Already going to sleep, are you?” he asked.

Laurent cracked an eye open. “I don’t have the energy to play the part of your clingy pet tonight.” To demonstrate this, he pulled one of the pillows over his head.

Damen nudged him with his foot. “You know Valerius is going to make me take part in some late-night revelry. You’ll have to come along –”

Laurent grumbled. “No,” he said, sounding genuinely tired, and when he peeked over the edge of the pillow Damen noticed for the first time the faint bags under his eyes. “I…need to rest,” he gritted out.

“Are you alright?” Damen asked, dropping to his knees beside the cot and reaching out uncertainly. “Are you sick? Do you have a fever –”

Laurent kicked at him halfheartedly. “No, _Mother_ ,” he snapped. Then, quieter, “I have just been having…dreams, as of late. Unpleasant dreams. I will take whatever rest I can get.” He frowned. “Will you allow me to?”

Damen stood reluctantly, wringing his hands. “But they’ll ask questions, what am I supposed to tell –”

Laurent settled back into the blankets, closing his eyes. “Just tell them you fucked me into oblivion. Problem solved. Now leave me alone.”

Damen gazed at the ceiling of the tent and prayed to whatever gods were out there to give him strength.

*

The night was indeed filled with revelries that Damen had little enthusiasm for, including a spectacle with several pets which he was horrified to admit he might have once taken part in. Now…now things were different. He politely declined Valerius’s various offers and tried to avert his eyes, memories of chains and baths and gold paint flashing through his mind in between long sips of wine. By the time he returned to the tent, his head was fuzzy and his body was floaty, and when he entered and saw Laurent curled up on the cot he did a double-take.

“Laurent?” he said, damned Veretian vowels slurring unavoidably.

He must have said it louder than he meant to, because Laurent startled upright, blinking at him before wrinkling his nose and saying with obvious disdain, “You’re drunk.” Damen shrugged and stumbled into the tent, landing heavily on the cot next to him. Laurent’s mouth twisted. “Stay away from me,” he hissed, paling when Damen reached out to him. “Brute, I swear –”

Damen had taken a single lock of Laurent’s hair between his fingers, holding it out very carefully between thumb and forefinger. Laurent was staring at him. Damen stared at his hair. “You know,” he said conversationally, “blond hair is very rare in Akielos.”

Laurent huffed. “I don’t care,” he said, but Damen was not dissuaded.

“I wish it wasn’t so rare,” he mumbled. “It’s so pretty. Like the sun.” He looked at Laurent seriously. “You have a halo,” he said.

Laurent’s ears had turned pink. He shoved at Damen’s hand, his hair slipping free. “Shut up,” he snapped. “And get away from me.”

Damen rolled onto his back compliantly, looking once more at the tent ceiling. It was a rich scarlet. “Auguste had a halo too,” he said, half to himself.

Laurent, beside him, froze. “What?” he whispered, unevenly. “ _What did you say?_ ”

“He had a halo,” Damen repeated. “Just like yours. He didn’t need a crown. It was already there. Just like you –”

“ _Stop_ ,” Laurent said, a rough, raw sound wrenched from his throat, barely distinguishable as a word. “Damen. Please.”

But Damen was already asleep.

*

The next day dawned early with the sound of trumpets and the whinnies of horses eager to run. Damen awoke with the faint throb of a headache as he sat up, yawning and telling himself firmly that he’d had much worse before getting to his feet to dress.

Laurent was already awake and dressed, sitting on the trunk of clothes and staring off into space, but when Damen rose and started towards him he scrambled off and away, avoiding his gaze. The events of the night previous were blurry at best. Damen suddenly had a terrible thought. “Did I…I didn’t _do_ anything to you last night, did I?”

Laurent looked up, startled. “What? No. No, you just…” Laurent sighed. “You just fondled my hair.”

Damen blinked. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry?” He cleared his throat. “In my defense, it _is_ very appealing hair.”

Laurent rolled his eyes, but Damen noticed his cheeks were flushed. “Less talking, more dressing,” he retorted. “You smell like a wine cellar.”

“Wine cellars smell good,” Damen said mildly as he opened the trunk.

Laurent scowled, but he was still blushing.  
*  
The horse races were a rowdy, ribald affair filled with betting and shouting and more drinking as the horses tore around the track again and again, sweat soaking their flanks and foam forming around the bits. Damen had no coin to place bets with, but many of the men (and some of the women) were getting quite competitive, arguing loudly about whichever horse they’d invested in. Valerius, whom Damen sat beside, seemed less interested in the betting and more in buying one of the horses. He kept turning to Damen to get his opinion. Laurent, perched on Damen’s thigh, was ignored.

“I must say, the gray stallion is a handsome horse, but the piebald gelding seems a mite faster. Thoughts, Damen?”

Damen looked at the horses and shrugged a bit helplessly. “I suppose it depends what kind of horse you’re looking for.”

Valerius nodded. “Yes, fair enough…” He lowered his voice and leaned in conspiratorially. “Liviana’s birthday is in a month, and she is quite the equestrian. I thought she might appreciate one of the racehorses…oh, perhaps I should just wait and pick one of the winners?”

Damen was about to nod when Laurent spoke up timidly, sending Valerius’s brows arching skyward. “If I may, sir, the…the chestnut mare would be the best choice.”

Valerius stared at Laurent for what felt like a long, long time. Damen dug his fingers into Laurent’s hip in silent panic. Then Valerius said evenly, “And why is that, Laurent?”

Laurent looked at him, steady. “The gray stallion is too excitable and unpredictable. The piebald gelding is fast but has a weak ankle; he favors his right side. The chestnut mare is the youngest, healthiest, and most responsive; look at how her ears prick and head turns with every command.” Laurent broke Valerius’s gaze, bowing his head again. “One of my old masters was quite an equestrian also, sir.”

Valerius’s mouth quirked up. “Is that so? Hmm.” He looked out at the field where the chestnut mare stood with her rider, then back at Laurent. “Damen, go to the horse Laurent pointed out and inform the owner I am interested in buying and wish to inspect it.”

Damen blinked in confusion.

Valerius’s brow lowered. “Was I unclear? Now, Damen, please, I haven’t got all day.” Damen stood, and Laurent hovered awkwardly in his stead, next to Valerius. Damen had no choice but to walk away, though he recognized the look in the Consul’s eyes, and it was directed at Laurent, and he did not like it one bit.

When he returned from telling the owner that the First Consul wished to buy her horse (which made her nearly weep with joy), he braced himself for what he might come back to. Valerius, though he put on a mask of niceties, was still Damen’s master, and by default Laurent’s. He could order Laurent to do anything – _anything_ – and Laurent could not refuse, or risk blowing their cover. But when Damen reached their seats, Laurent was still curled up in the grass and Valerius was leaning down to speak with him animatedly, gesturing and smiling at Laurent, who smiled back and replied quietly.

“It is done,” Damen said, settling beside Laurent. Valerius nodded, pleased.

“Good, good,” he said absently. “Damen, this pet of yours has such a knack for storytelling! He makes Vere sound like a simply marvelous place. I wonder, did you know his tongue was capable of such refined speech?”

“Yes,” Damen said. “He is…a very unique creature.”

“I’ll say!” Valerius exclaimed. “It is not often the palace is graced with a pet so beautiful and intelligent.”

Laurent ducked his head. “Thank you,” he whispered. But Damen saw his profile; half-hidden by golden hair, and he was frowning; a deep, troubled line between his brows. Damen touched his hip again, softer, and the line smoothed over.

“But enough about horses and pets,” Valerius said. “Sunset is upon us, and Lupercus has yet to be truly honored.”

*

The following three days passed in a flurry of horse races, wine, entertainments, and the most bizarre, pagan rituals Damen had ever seen. The Artesians seemed very keen on sacrifice – they sacrificed seven cockerels and a lamb on the first night, two of the winning racehorses on the second night (which seemed like a huge waste), three wild boars on the third night, and a bull and cow on the fourth night. Damen supposed he should just be grateful they weren’t burning people at the stake for their mysterious deities. The sooner they were gone from this barbaric place and its gods, the better.

He and Laurent _had_ discussed escape, in hushed tones within the safer confines of their tent. But they simply could not find an opportunity – there were guards posted around the Grounds even long after dark, and there was usually someone awake at any given hour. And, being next to a Consul’s tent, the guard was doubled and there were dozens of tents they’d have to get past before they even got close to the Silva Arsia, which was their best shot at a hiding place. It was infuriating, to be so close to freedom yet so far away.

Even if they did manage to slip away, Damen was unclear about what would happen next. Laurent was insistent that they get to another town to get their slave bands and collars removed before finding a port, but Damen was reluctant to take any risks with locals who might not think twice about turning in escaped palace slaves for a hefty reward.

And then there was the matter of their final destination. Damen, of course, wanted to go home. Laurent, of course, wanted to go home. But their homes did not share a common port. They didn’t discuss that very much.

Besides, there was little time for discussion when Valerius had them accompanying him to what felt like every event of the day. He usually talked more with Laurent, but on the morning of the fourth day, over an impressive breakfast spread, Valerius spoke to Damen, and it was not to order him around.

“So,” Valerius said, wiping scone crumbs from his mouth, “the wrestling matches are today at noon. Are you still confident you can perform well, Damen?”

Damen nodded. “I can.”

Circe, who mostly only joined them for meals and rituals, looked up from her plate with interest. “Oh, darling, you didn’t tell me you were having him compete! How exciting. I hope you’re as good at wrestling men as you are bears.”

“I’m better, my Lady,” Damen said, preening only a little. Laurent subtly rolled his eyes.

“I look forward to seeing you prove that,” Valerius agreed, “but before the matches, it is customary that you receive some sort of…favor, or token. A token of your patron god. For luck, you see.”

Damen took an uncertain bite of toast. “But…I don’t have a god.”

“Nonsense!” Circe said, seeming personally affronted by the mere notion that Damen was god-less. “Everyone does! Well, most everyone. But an excellent fighter like you; of course you have one! If a god did not watch over you, you would be dead by now.”

_I would be dead by now if I wasn’t one of the best swordsman in Akielos,_ Damen thought but did not say. Instead he forced a smile and said, “I’m sure you’re right, my Lady. How do I go about getting this token?”

Circe looked delighted and stood at once in a swish of skirts. “Come, come with me.” She leaned down and kissed Valerius’s cheek. “We’ll be back soon, darling. You know how much I love seeing the priestesses at work.”

“Go on, dear,” Valerius said with a wave of his hand. Damen got up to follow her, with Laurent close at his heels. Valerius’s hand faltered. “Laurent, won’t you stay and enjoy the rest of breakfast with me?”

Circe paused, expression inscrutable.

Laurent kept his hand curled into the fabric of Damen’s tunic. “I’m sorry, sir,” he murmured, “if you would permit it, I would very much like to see this. And maybe…maybe I could discover my patron god, too?”

Circe laughed, too loud. “You? Pets do not have gods, you foolish boy.”

But Valerius’s hand fell. “If that pleases you, Laurent, it pleases me.” He gave his wife a meaningful look. “And if you do have a god, I am certain it’s a lovely one.”

Damen swallowed, the tension in the air palpable. Laurent was perfectly still at his side, but his fingers clutched Damen’s tunic like a lifeline. Valerius returned to his meal. Circe, far less excited than before, started off through the clusters of tents.

“Try to keep up,” she said.

*

The priestesses, as it turned out, were camped on the fringes of the Grounds, several meters away from the treeline of the Silva Arsia. Laurent’s grip tightened, and Damen knew. This was the closest they’d gotten to the forest. This might be their chance.

The priestesses’ tent was low and large and the air was heavy with incense as they stepped inside. Ironically, it resembled a brothel in some ways, dim and decorated as it was. Damen didn’t know what he’d expected, but when a child stepped out from behind a tapestry, he did a double-take. She had curly black hair and wide brown eyes and could not have been older than ten or twelve. The girl looked at him without fear, but instead with an eerie sort of solemnity that made her young face look much, much wiser.

“Victor,” she said, in a voice that did not match her body. “We knew you would visit us.”

Circe clapped her hands. “Ooh, they _knew_! Damen, you must be very important to the gods.”

“Yes,” said the girl without further explanation, turning and walking deeper into the tent. “Follow me.”

Damen did, past several more tapestries, shelves lined with colorful, bubbling vials of various sizes, and piles of books that came up to Laurent’s hip. And then, behind the last and largest tapestry, which depicted a shockingly good rendition of the Artesian capital in silk, the girl stopped.

There was a table there, and at the table sat a lady with long black hair and green eyes beside an old, wizened woman with silvery cobweb hair and eyes milky-white with cataracts. The girl sat beside the lady, gesturing for Damen to take the single seat opposite.

“Hello,” said the lady, in what Damen swore was the same voice of the little girl. “Look at the table. What do you see?”

Scattered across the tabletop were various objects. “There’s…parchment. An arrow. A piece of wood…oak? A gold ring. A seashell. An olive, and pomegranate seeds. A laurel. A rose. A hammer. A spearhead. And…” Damen narrowed his eyes at the small, dark mound. “Ashes?”

“Very good,” the old woman said, again in the same voice. “Do you feel drawn to any of the objects?”

“Drawn?” Damen frowned. “Ah…no. Not particularly.” He leaned back in the chair. “Listen, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I have a –”

“Hush!” scolded the girl, and Damen did. “You have a god,” she said. “A god who guides you safely through your life…”

_Well, he’s doing a shit job of that,_ Damen thought.

The lamps in the room flickered violently. The women paused. He could feel Laurent and Circe watching from the corner with baited breath. “And I suppose that was my god?” Damen asked.

The women nodded in unison. “They are here. They are listening. Close your eyes. Listen back.”

Damen could not believe he was doing this, but slowly, he forced himself to relax and let his eyes fall shut, listening as hard as he could to the sounds of the tent. There was not much to hear – the breathing of the tent’s occupants, the wind from outside, the soft rustle of the tapestries, the crackle of the fireplace –

His eyes snapped open. Fireplace? He…was in a tent. There was no fireplace. But he asked the women anyway. “Do you have a fireplace?”

They all began to smile. “Close your eyes again. Keep listening.”

Damen did so, but this time it was harder to relax, especially as the crackling and popping of what could only be a fire filled his ears. Louder and louder, until the flames were roaring in his ears and he could feel the heat on his skin and then there was a resounding _crash_ and when he opened his eyes the objects on the table were covered in ash. Strange, he hadn’t felt any wind.

“She has made herself clear to you,” the child said, beaming.

“ _She_?” Damen repeated, baffled.

“Your patron,” the women said. “She is the goddess Vesta, of the home and the hearth.”

“Of the _what_?!” Distinctly, Damen heard Laurent snort.

“Do not underestimate Vesta,” the lady said. “Just because she is no god of war and valor does not mean she is not powerful. She is one of Artes’s most beloved deities; there is an entire college of priestesses devoted to her. The Vestal Virgins.”

Damen stared at them. “I think,” he said, “there’s been some mistake.”

The lamps flickered again, this time so fiercely that they were nearly snuffed out. “No,” said the old woman harshly. “The gods do not make mistakes.”

The lady sighed. “You are already a strong warrior,” she told him. “But being chosen by Vesta speaks of a different strength – a strong heart.”

Laurent was never going to let him live this down.

“It means you are a good man,” the girl added. “Vesta only chooses those who are pure of heart and free from the corruption of power, wealth, and debauchery. Vesta chooses those who are heroes in the truest sense.”

“Such lofty goals for a gladiator,” Circe said mildly from the corner.

“Yes,” said the women, and the back of Damen’s neck prickled as they gazed at him, steady, piercing, _knowing_. “But who knows where his fate may lead him?”

“Are we done here?” Damen said, hastily standing up.

The girl shook her head, and reached into her pocket, taking out a small silver pin. She held it between her small palms, head bowed over it, lips moving in silent sounds that must have been some kind of prayer or blessing. When she was done, she held it out to him.

“Your token,” she said. “Given the Blessing of Vesta. Wear it before the fights, and may it bring you luck.”

Damen took it, and pinned it to his tunic. “Thank you,” he said, though he doubted it was anything more than a glorified piece of metal.

The women watched him go. _We know you_ , their eyes said. He felt the weight of their gazes on his back. _You are no gladiator_ , they said. _You are no slave._

A fire crackled distantly.

*

Maybe the pin was lucky after all, though, because shortly after exiting the tent, Circe was swept away by two of her friends, fellow Senate-ladies who were chatting loudly about something involving an emerald necklace and a large ship. As soon as she left their side, Damen found himself pulled, subtly but forcefully, towards the treeline. “Laurent,” he hissed, “maybe we should think this through a little more –”

“I am done thinking,” Laurent snapped, tone wrought with frustration. “ _Move_ , brute.”

They managed to avoid the last set of guards, and then they broke into a run, and the ground changed from green grass to damp leaves and thick undergrowth and the shadows of the trees washed over them and Laurent sprinted ahead, hair streaming out behind him.

Damen slowed slightly, watching him dash through the dappled green and gold light, his movements as graceful as they were urgent. For a moment Damen imagined Laurent as one of the forest spirits he’d been warned of, a capricious, otherworldly being which peered back at him through the leaves, chest rising and falling with lost breaths, blue eyes sharp chips of glass fixed upon him.

And then the eyes were widening, and Damen was yanked behind a large oak, confused until he heard Circe call, “Damen? Laurent?” A pause, her tone sharpening. “Not trying to run off, are you?” Twigs snapped under her heels as she and her friends followed their footprints. “Oh, Valerius won’t be pleased…”

Laurent grasped Damen’s hand and nodded to a small clearing a few meters away. It was the worst hiding place Damen had ever seen. But Laurent tugged at his arm insistently, and Damen went, and then Laurent lay down on the soft grass of the clearing and said, “Get on top of me.”

Damen felt like he’d just been punched in the face. “ _What_ –”

But then Damen heard the footsteps and saw the collar around Laurent’s neck and the sapphire earrings and suddenly he understood. Glancing over his shoulder, he did as Laurent asked, hovering above him on his hands and knees, their noses nearly touching. Laurent’s legs parted, and wrapped loosely around Damen’s hips, and Damen forced himself not to look down because he knew the chiton had to be riding up.

Damen shifted slightly, his adjusting the position of his right hand to balance himself better, and Laurent warned, “Don’t touch me,” even as he wound his arms around Damen’s neck and tugged him down, until Damen’s face was pressed up against the side of his neck, soft skin flushed under his lips.

The footsteps came closer. “Damen! You can’t hide forever; don’t make me send the guards after you.”

Another voice, “Ungrateful slave. Valerius treated him and his prize so well, and this is the thanks he gets?”

Laurent let out a loud and entirely unexpected moan.

Damen made a strangled noise. Laurent’s nails dug into the back of his neck.

“Wait…Circe, did you hear that?”

“Yes, this way –”

“Move your hips,” Laurent hissed before moaning again. Damen was going to die.

“ – oh. _Oh_.” Circe’s laughter, echoing through the woods. “Just couldn’t wait, could they?”

“Akielons,” another lady giggled, leaves snapping as she turned away. “Perhaps he was influenced by Lupercus?”

Circe laughed again. “Make haste,” she called. “If you’re not at the wrestling ring in ten minutes, I will send riders after you both.”

The three ladies left them.

Laurent shoved at his chest with more strength than Damen would have expected. “Off,” he snapped. Damen complied, standing up and brushing leaves and grass from his pants. Laurent stood a bit unsteadily, a grass stain on his cheek. Damen stared at him. “What,” Laurent said flatly.

“You are suspiciously good at faking that,” Damen told him. “Have you –”

Laurent gave him one of the coldest looks Damen had ever seen. “If you value your tongue remaining intact, you will stop right there,” he said.

Damen held up his hands. “Alright, alright.”

Laurent regarded him for a long moment before saying, “Your hair.”

Damen ran a hand through it, tousling his curls convincingly. Then he reached out and said, “ _Your_ hair,” and ruffled Laurent’s without thinking, the wavy golden strands soft against his calloused fingers. Laurent grabbed his wrist, eyes wide, and Damen pulled back. He didn’t apologize. Not after what Laurent had just subjected him to. “You were the one rolling in the grass,” he added.

Laurent glowered at him, and flicked the silver pin on Damen’s tunic. “Pure of heart?” he mocked. “Very likely.”

“Pure of heart and pure of mind are two very different things,” Damen protested, but Laurent was already going back the way they’d come, a defeated slump to his shoulders. Damen fell silent. They’d had their chance, and they’d lost it.

*

The wrestling matches were similar to their Akielon counterparts. They were, however, much more…brutal. That was the only word that came to mind as Damen watched two heavily muscled men pummel each other into unconsciousness, which was apparently the goal. Akielon wrestling matches stopped when one opponent managed to get the other in a headlock for at least five seconds. This, he supposed, was…simpler.

Damen stood with the other competitors off to the side of the ring. The awning closest to the ring was where Valerius sat with Circe, the Empress, Consul Otho, and Laurent, who was seated demurely at Valerius’s feet. Laurent refused to look at Damen, especially after a slave stripped him of his clothes and oiled up his body. Damen turned his gaze away from Laurent, and instead to the equally bare men around him, not-so-subtly sizing them up. Most were older than Damen, and more heavily scarred, but it was a comfort to see that he was at least on the taller, broader end of the spectrum.

The two men currently in the ring were both bearded and large, one with dark tattoos twining around his bulging arms and the other with a hooked nose that had been broken one too many times. The one with tattoos was faster, but once Broken Nose got him on his back he didn’t stand a chance.

His face turned red, then purple, as hands closed around his thick neck, and he thrashed under Broken Nose again and again, but to no avail. When he finally lost consciousness it was a quiet, easy thing, and as he went limp the victor stood, punching a fist into the air as he was showered with flowers thrown by the crowd.

A man to Damen’s right nudged his arm. Damen looked up. The man was about as tall as him, with lighter skin, darker hair, and the lean, hard body of a warrior. “What?” Damen said.

“You’re Valerius’s fighter, right?” the man asked, arms folded and brows raised. “The one with the blonde Veretian?”

“Yes,” he said, guarded. “What’s it to you?”

The man nodded to the ring. “I’m Second Consul Otho’s fighter, and I challenge you to a match. If you win, you can have my prize for the night. If I win, I get yours for the night. Deal?”

Damen bit his lip. “Depends. What’s your prize?”

Grinning, the man pointed to the base of Consul Otho’s chair, where a smirking, fair-haired pet reclined on the pillow-strewn ground, her ears adorned with amethyst, sparkling topaz woven into her long yellow curls. She caught Damen’s gaze and held it, sitting up slightly, slim chest barely covered by the delicate dress.

Laurent was going to murder him.

“Ariadne,” the man said. “She’s worth it, trust me. And I’m sure yours is too. Just takes it and begs for more, I bet.”

Damen forced his fists to unclench. “Something like that,” he said. He glanced at Laurent, who was looking at him then, eyes narrowed as if he somehow knew the deal Damen was about to make. The man looked strong, but Damen was stronger. Probably. He had to be. “Fine,” Damen said, inclining his head. “Deal.”

The man looked so thrilled that Damen almost regretted it. Almost. Then he saw Ariadne again.

The man went up to the ring right away, which Damen hadn’t been expecting. Warily, he followed, paying close attention to the way the man moved, the possible weak points of his body – groin, stomach, neck, ankles…Damen noted them all as the man stepped into the ring with him. The mediator raised his hands and announced them. “The Consuls’ gladiators, competing for a night with each other’s prizes!” he cried, and the crowd murmured with interest.

Valerius blinked. Circe tried not to look too pleased.

Laurent glared. And glared, and glared, his face twisting into a frankly terrifying expression.

Damen ignored him. The man took his place opposite in the ring, both of them standing inches apart with their hands braced on each other’s shoulders, as it had been in the ring in Vere. “Good luck,” the man said with a sneer, his previous courtesy gone in a heartbeat. “I’m looking forward to fucking your pretty prize ‘til he bleeds.”

Damen smiled thinly. “If they bleed, you’re not doing it right,” he shot back.

The man scoffed. His palms were large and clammy on Damen’s biceps.

“May the gods watch over you and the best man win!” the mediator shouted, and both of them burst into motion, though it was not immediately apparent, their strength matched for a few seconds as they grappled against each other, neither giving the other one any ground. The man tried to brace himself on his right foot, weakening his left, and Damen saw his chance and took it, kicking his left knee hard enough to make it buckle. But the man had a stronger hold on Damen’s arm than he’d expected, and they both went down hard onto the ground, fighting to gain the upper position.

The man’s hand, once on Damen’s forearm, was moving up, and only when he reached them did Damen realize he was aiming for the scars. His nails dug in, scratching and pulling at the healing tissue, and Damen snarled, driving a knee into his groin and rolling, slamming him into the dirt. But the oil made everything slippery, and when his nails raked across the scars hard enough to draw blood, Damen’s grip on him loosened and he broke free, scrambling back and standing as Damen leapt back, evading a well-aimed punch.

The man was breathing hard, but he wasn’t even close to worn out. Adrenaline rushed through both of them. Blood trickled down Damen’s back and he could’ve cared less, lunging at the man again, their chests collided, each trying to use their own weight and momentum to pin the other. Feet skidded, hands clawed, teeth sank into Damen’s shoulder and he realized this was even more brutal than he’d previously thought.

Damen landed a blow on the side of the man’s head as his teeth threatened to rip flesh, and the man stumbled back, still grinning, but there was an edge to it now. Damen rolled his shoulders. Oh, he wanted to fight? Damen would show him a fight. This time, when their bodies met, Damen took ahold of his arm and twisted savagely, and though the man’s elbow connected with his jaw, the shoulder popped out of the socket. The man swore, and the crowd cheered and booed in equal measure, as if unsure who they should be rooting for.

The man went for Damen’s eyes. Damen shoved him, kicking his ankles out from under him expertly, and pinned him to the ground, an arm braced over his throat. The man kicked and spat curses but Damen was done, and when he struck the man on the side of his head his eyes went unfocused before rolling back in his head and falling shut, his body going lax within seconds.

Damen stood over his body, punching his fist into the air. The crowd, mostly pleased with the winner, tossed flowers of every kind into the air, many landing in the ring, some of them catching in Damen’s hair. Damen was led out of the ring with a slap on the back and an apology as he winced, slaves bringing bandages and towels for his wounds as he was brought to kneel before Valerius. The Consul nodded, pleased, and a garland was set upon his head.

“Well done,” Valerius said. Circe congratulated him, too.

Laurent did not.

Neither did the Empress.

*

Laurent did not speak to him the rest of the day. He said nothing even when Damen left before the night’s rituals with Ariadne on his arm, taking her back to their tent and wondering why he felt so guilty about it. He had won her, fair and square, and when he teased her open with an eager mouth and fingers she most certainly did not bleed, but instead clutched at him, gasping, begging, and when he finally slid home she whispered wonderful things in his ear about how she wished she was his prize every night, but still, Damen felt guilty.

More than that, he felt strangely empty; unfulfilled, even. Damen loved sex, he really did. But there was something uncomfortable and foreign about being inside of her, about looking down and seeing her face distorted in ecstasy, feeling her lips on his, her legs hitched around his waist wantonly. And Damen didn’t know what it was until his fingers slid through her golden hair and he realized, with a shock that was somehow not a shock at all, that he wished she was Laurent.

Afterwards, when she lay curled drowsily on his chest, still murmuring pretty, meaningless things, Damen tried to come to terms with this somewhat upsetting realization. Upsetting, because it was never going to happen. Laurent, especially after today, hated him. And unlike the man in the ring, Damen would never even dream of taking what he wanted from Laurent by force. But he wanted it. Much as Damen would like to deny it, he very much wanted it; wanted him.

Laurent, as fate would have it, entered the tent when Damen was in the middle of getting dressed and Ariadne was slyly offering a third round. Laurent froze. Damen froze. Ariadne looked lazily at Laurent through her lashes, moving purposefully against Damen.

“You’re a lucky prize,” she told Laurent.

Laurent was trembling with barely-concealed rage. Damen decided it was time to send Ariadne on her way. He touched her face. “Apologies, but you should go,” he murmured. She leaned into it, kissing his palm before gathering up her clothes and leaving, brushing against Laurent on her way out.

Damen sighed, pulling on his shirt. “You’re mad at me,” Damen started.

Laurent’s jaw worked. “Brilliant deduction,” he said.

“I knew I was going to win,” Damen tried. “You were never in danger of –”

“Oh, get over yourself,” Laurent snapped. “You had no way of knowing that. And yet you still offered my body as the prize should you lose. Just so you could…what? Have a tumble with a pet who would actually obey you; who was forced to let you fuck them as I would’ve been forced had you lost?”

“Laurent –”

“No, don’t you _Laurent_ me,” Laurent interrupted. “Don’t act like you have any right to my forgiveness. You don’t. You don’t have a right to _anything_ of mine, much less my body.”

Damen blinked. “I –”

Laurent shook his head. “Don’t deny it, brute. I see the way you look at me and it makes me sick.”

Damen folded his arms, fed up with Laurent’s cutting accusations, true though they might be. “Maybe you’re just seeing what you want to see.”

Laurent blanched. “You?” he said coldly. “I could never want _you_.”

Damen turned away, his back throbbing under the shirt, the lashes burning like lines of fire across his spine. “I know,” he said.

*

The two remaining days of Lupercalia were filled with Laurent’s suffocating silence and caustic contempt. He had made his own, separate cot in their tent, and even when he was forced to sit on Damen’s lap in public it was with resentment emanating from him, stiffness in every limb and disdain shining in his eyes. Valerius made more attempts to speak with him and Laurent accepted every one sweetly, probably knowing that it bothered Damen.

It was an unexpected relief to ride back to the palace, and Damen did so without Laurent, who had quickly accepted Valerius’s offer to ride in his carriage. Damen almost asked Laurent to stay with him, after seeing that _look_ in the First Consul’s eyes; but when they arrived again at the palace Laurent was untouched and just as derisive as before. Damen was glad he hadn’t bothered.

Their days fell into a routine again, albeit a much less enjoyable one than before. Damen performed in the Colosseum, Laurent watched, celebrations were had. But Laurent didn’t so much as touch his back again, to the point where Damen had to request another slave be brought to the baths after the fights to apply the salve to the still-healing scars. At night, Laurent slept on the sofa, despite Damen’s weak insistence that he should take the bed (“You would break the sofa, brute.”) and their daily back and forth repartee was all but gone.

Damen tried to apologize. He did. But Laurent just turned up his nose even further.

At least a week of this passed; Damen didn’t know exactly, he only knew that they were wasting more and more time in Artes while Akielos and Vere could be going to war at any given moment. And there was nothing he could do.

The only thing he could do here was win. And win he did, fight after fight, striking down prowling panthers, more wolves, monstrous horned beasts, charging bulls, and other animals he’d never seen before and had no name for except “prey.”

His winning streak was making him quite popular with everyone except Laurent. So popular, in fact, that rumors of his apparent invincibility began to travel through the crowds, seeing how he never got seriously injured, though he was often inches from being gored, mauled, or knocked down. It was these rumors that led to a fight with Kakios.

If Damen was a star gladiator, Kakios was a star beast. That was all Petra told him before she sent him up into the arena, but she said it grimly, and touched his arm, looking into his eyes as if it was the last time she would ever see him.

It was.

When Damen strode into the arena, the people were already cheering, chanting his name, but not just his name. “Kakios!” they cried, the two names mixing, creating garbled sounds that stuck and twisted in Damen’s ears. “Kakios!” “Damen!” The mixing of the names was eerily close to Damen’s full name, and made him shiver.

The iron gates on the far side of the arena lifted. Kakios entered.

He was a lion.

Damen gripped his sword tight. A lion, of course, how appropriate, an Akielon fighting the symbol of his homeland. Lions were rare creatures in Akielos, respected and feared, not killed for sport. But this lion, it seemed, was respected and feared, too, in his own way.

Kakios paced on his side of the arena with patient, feline grace, large paws silent on the sand, round ears pricked and toothy maw agape, scenting the air. He was large, maybe half the size of the bear Damen had first faced, with a scarred tan pelt rippling with muscle and a dark, matted mane of fur flowing back from his regal face.

Kakios stopped midstep, turning slowly to Damen, gold eyes bright and piercing.

Damen did not want to kill him.

Kakios had no such qualms. He roared, black lips pulling back from curved teeth. He was perfectly still as he stared at Damen, unerring, still except for the long, lashing tail. Damen raised the sword.

Kakios charged.

There was incredible strength in his leap, sending him halfway across the arena and then to Damen with a snarl and a lunge. But unlike the wolves, he avoided Damen’s sword, well-aware of how deadly the metal could be, going instead for Damen’s unprotected side, and as Damen stumbled back, Kakios knocked the sword cleanly from his hands with a heavy blow to his shoulder that sent Damen reeling.

The crowd’s roars could not match the lion’s when he took Damen down, a crushing, killing weight, jaws snapping for his neck, gouging long scratches across the leather and _through_ , blood staining Kakios’s claws as he reached Damen’s flesh. Damen shouted in pain, kicking at the lion’s underbelly and half-succeeding, rolling away from another lightning-fast attack and clutching his bleeding chest dazedly. The crowd was screaming, for their savage lion and their failing fighter, and when Damen glanced up at the stands Valerius was on the edge of his seat, Otho was covering his mouth; even the Empress was watching tensely.

But Laurent was resolutely turned away.

Damen caught his breath, glanced at the prowling lion, and tried to reclaim his sword.

Kakios beat him to it, standing over the weapon and going up on his hind legs, mane puffing, eyes narrowing as he roared again, making it clear that this was _his_ arena, and Damen was not going to leave it alive under his watch. Damen believed it, and backed away, mind working furiously. He was unarmed and several feet away from a lion that wanted to kill him. A lion that could, quite easily, kill him. Damen forced himself to stay calm.

He needed a weapon. Not even he could choke out a lion – even if he somehow managed to get his arms around its muscular neck, it would put him head-on with its snapping jaws, and Damen rather liked his face. Unarmed, all it would take was a few more attacks and as soon as Kakios got a hold on him, it would be over. Damen looked around the arena – nothing but sand. The iron gate, maybe…no, the bars were welded securely together, and one of Damen’s arms was already scratched badly. Getting his sword would be a deathwish.

His armor clanked as he stepped away from the growling lion. Damen stopped.

The armor was entirely leather, except for the metal pauldrons on his shoulders. Reaching up, slowly, Damen unbuckled the left one, holding it in his shaking hands. It was made of three overlapping sections of beaten steel, and when he tugged hard at the largest of them, it came away with a soft _scchnick_ as the connecting leather strap broke.

He held the square of sharp-edged metal in his hands, his left shoulder entirely bare.

The crowd buzzed with excitement and anticipation. He was not unarmed anymore, and Kakios saw it, eyes darting from Damen’s face to the pauldron piece, jaws widening. His haunches lowered, his muscles coiled, his ears flicked back; he sprang.

Damen was prepared to let the lion hit him squarely in the chest, but he was not prepared for how much it would hurt. He hit the ground hard, all the air knocked out of him, claws digging new holes into his chest, slicing the armor to ribbons as the two of them struggled against each other, skin and pelt, mane and hair, the metal edge pressed up against Kakios’s throat, holding him at bay, cutting a thin line in the golden flesh as he fought to get at Damen’s exposed neck in an agonizing scrabble of claws and finally, teeth, which strayed from their goal to sink instead into Damen’s bare left shoulder.

Damen cried out; more accurately, he roared, the lion’s canines ripping through flesh and tendons and reaching bone with frightening ease.

Kakios’s teeth reached Damen’s bones just as the metal edge reached Kakios’s jugular.

The lion choked on its own blood, drawing back from Damen’s shoulder, convulsing, claws still slashing even as Kakios lay atop him, dying. Damen’s vision spotted, his ribs creaking in his chest, lungs burning at the deadweight, heart stuttering as blood pumped out of his shoulder and into the sand, which was already soaked red. Kakios was making sounds, garbled and low and desperate, but then he fell silent, and his eyes fell closed, and Damen tried to push the lion’s carcass off but found he could not move.

The world was all noise and blurry faces, people who had run into the arena, lifting Kakios off of him, kneeling down to touch him and Damen fought to stay with them, to stay with the ghost of a boy who leapt out of the stands, dashing towards him, golden hair streaming out behind him.

But he could not stay. Darkness overtook his vision, and not even Laurent’s cries could bring back the light.


	6. Effleurer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _EFFLEURER: to stroke gently, to touch lightly, to brush past._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand this is the longest chapter of them all. I hope you enjoy. (Yes, I've learned my lesson. I'm not apologizing for these long af chapters anymore, because you guys actually seem to like them a lot??? Thanks a ton for that support.)  
> This chapter also took a while to finish because a) I just kept wanting to add more disgusting fluff and painful angst and b) I had my junior prom on Saturday! Gotta say it could have been better - there was a definite lack of naked female dancers or Laurents in my lap. Sigh.
> 
> Enjoy guys and thank you again for alllll your comments, I read every single one and I will reply to you all on the last chap of this story. Your support is what inspires me to keep writing this bigger than expected fic.
> 
> (p.s. there will be smut in ch7. you are welcome. get pumped.)  
> (p.p.s. for a visual on the Empress, look up the lovely Anais Mali.)

Everything happened in slow motion.

One minute, Laurent was staring as hard as he could at the stone of the seats, doing his best to ignore what was bound to be yet another one of Damen’s crowd-pleasing fights. 

The next minute, Damen was screaming, and Laurent’s head snapped up; there was blood everywhere, and against his own volition Laurent leapt from his seat, evading the guards and vaulting over the edge of the stands, into the arena, running and running towards Damen, whose body was revealed as guards rushed in to remove the dead lion.

Laurent stumbled. Damen wasn’t moving. His armor was torn, as was the flesh beneath, but the scratches on his chest and arms were nothing compared to the mangled mess of his left shoulder. Laurent said Damen’s name, or maybe he shouted it, he didn’t know, but then he was falling, landing hard on his knees in the wet, gritty sand next to Damen and touching his bloodied face even as the guards pulled him back. 

_He’s dead_ , Laurent thought numbly. _Damianos is finally dead and I don’t know what to do._

But then Damen’s lips parted in a low, agonized groan, life stirring in his mutilated body, and as Valerius strode down into the arena the guards stepped away from Laurent hastily. The Consul leaned down, placing a hand on Laurent’s shoulder. “He needs to be stitched up now, Laurent. You don’t want to see that.”

Laurent clung to Damen still, shaking his head. “Please,” he whispered, “let me stay with him. I want to stay with him.”

Valerius sighed, relenting, and nodded to the guards. “Take the pet with him,” he said. Laurent, dizzy with relief, followed them out of the arena on wobbly legs. 

*

Damen was rushed to a new part of the palace, a place which Laurent could only assume was the physicians’ wing, where he was laid out on a low table and immediately surrounded by people in white who poked at him with various frightening tools. Damen was beginning to stir from the new pain, his low noises increasing in volume, bitten-off Akielon curses filling the air. Then they made Damen drink a heavy sleeping draught, and he was quiet and still after that, allowing them to clean and sew up the worst of the wounds. 

Laurent sat on a small stool in the corner of the room with one of the physicians next to him – whether to watch him or comfort him, he wasn’t certain. 

“You are close to your master?” she asked him gently. Laurent nodded stiffly. “He is a strong man,” she said. “Kakios took quite a bite out of him, but it is likely he will survive. The arm may have to go, but –”

“The arm?” Laurent repeated, horrified. 

She looked stricken. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “The nerve damage might be too great for him to regain use of his left arm. Even if he does, I’m afraid it will be much weaker than the other one.” 

Laurent squeezed his eyes shut. To lose an arm, especially for a swordsman and warrior like Damen…that was a cruel fate. “Oh,” he said. This, all of this, was too much. A year ago he would have rejoiced at the thought of Prince Damianos getting maimed or killed. But now…now, Laurent needed him. Much as he hated to admit it, Laurent needed him to survive this world in one piece.

And perhaps, deep down, he knew that Damianos didn’t deserve such a fate.

The operation continued in tense silence. Laurent watched the shadows grow longer, the light fading, replaced by sputtering oil lamps just as the last of the stitches were tied off and the physicians declared his condition stable, for now.

The woman squeezed Laurent’s shoulder. “They were able to save the arm after all,” she murmured. “As long as infection does not set in, I think your fighter will recover, dear.” Laurent exhaled shakily. “Would you like to see him?” He nodded.

She led him over to where Damen lay, and Laurent bit his cheek so hard he tasted blood – they’d removed the remnants of the armor, and though Damen’s hips were covered by a white cloth, every other inch of his once-strong body was on display. It was a canvas of violence, three bandaged scratches running deep over his abdomen and a larger collection scattered over his breast, a few shallow cuts that littered his arms, and across his ribs and belly his skin was mottled with huge bruises, so numerous that not even the darkness of his skin could conceal them. 

And his shoulder, fully stitched and bandaged, was sluggishly soaking through the white fabric in a rusty claret stain, the entire area covered in the same ointment that had been spread over most of his chest. Almost every single cut would scar. Laurent realized this with a sinking feeling, thinking darkly, _Now his front will match his back._ But he knew that wasn’t quite true – Laurent’s whip had, in some ways, done more damage than the damned lion.

Damen was breathing, but it seemed like an uncertain thing, a fleeting phenomenon that could stop at any moment. Laurent reached out, placing just his fingertips on Damen’s skin, startled by the searing heat of it.

One of the physicians noticed and frowned. “He has a fever, yes,” she said, setting a soaked cloth on his forehead. “We cleaned the wounds as thoroughly as possible, but some animals carry dangerous afflictions. Kakios may have had –”

“Hush, he’s only a pet,” the other physician muttered. She turned to Laurent kindly. “Valerius said you could stay here with him, if you wish. He will need to spend the night so we can monitor his condition.”

“Yes,” Laurent whispered. “I…I would like to stay.”

The physician smiled and took his arm again. “Let’s make up a cot for you, dear.”

*

Damen survived the first night, but he woke up hours before dawn, thrashing and gasping for water or air or both. Laurent awoke in a disoriented haze, watching with bleary eyes as the physicians held Damen down and drugged him again, whispering in worried tones to each other before glancing back at Laurent, small and huddled in his heap of blankets. 

_It’ll be a pity if the fighter dies,_ one said.

_He must treat his pet well for it to be so attached to him. Most prizes hate their fighters, or at least fear them._

_Well, this one seems to love him. Poor thing._

Laurent covered his ears and went back to sleep, but it was plagued with shadowy dreams, flashes of warm brown eyes overlaid by cold blue ones, a bloodied crown, endless white sheets, pale hands, dark hands, all of them grasping at him, holding him down, taking and taking and taking and –

Laurent awoke to one of the physicians shaking him softly. The room was awash with early morning light, and behind her, he could see Damen set aglow by it, warm and peaceful instead of cold and stiff.

“The fever’s gone down. We’re moving him back to his quarters,” she murmured. “Come, dear, I know you’ll want to be at his side.”

Laurent, strangely enough, did. And as the physicians bundled Damen up onto a stretcher and carried him through the quiet palace halls, Laurent had an even stranger urge to snap at them to be careful, to look past the large, muscled body and realize just how fragile their cargo was, to realize how close to death he had been; how close he was still. But they reached Damen’s quarters without incident, and when they lowered him onto the bed his head lolled to the side, breaths evening out and body relaxing at the welcome change from stone to silk.

The physicians stepped back and looked at Laurent almost expectantly. It took him a second, but then with unhappy understanding he approached the bed and slipped under the sheets, curling loosely against Damen’s side. There was no response; Damen must have really been out cold. The close contact was not as bad as it would’ve been otherwise – this way, Damen was a chained beast, a toothless hound incapable of biting back. It was somewhat satisfying to think of how easy it would be to hurt him in this state. But at the same time, Laurent felt a surge of protectiveness and possessiveness at the thought of others taking advantage of Damen’s vulnerability.  
_Only I am allowed to hurt him,_ he thought, nonsensically. 

After changing bandages and reapplying salves to Damen’s torn flesh, the physicians retreated, leaving the bowl of water and the damp cloth with him and reassuring him he needed only to call for help if Damen’s condition worsened. Valerius, thankfully, seemed to be taking great pains to make certain Damen recovered. Laurent wondered whether that choice had been made for Damen’s sake or his own, and immediately regretted the thought, quickly banishing Valerius from his mind.

Instead, he sat up and leaned over Damen, studying him in a way he had been previously unable to. There was a sort of power in watching others when they could not watch you back, but when Laurent touched the curve of his jaw idly, Damen stirred, eyes blinking open. 

Laurent wrenched his hand back, wide-eyed. Damen’s gaze was unfocused and half-lidded as it rested upon him. “Laurent,” he croaked, in a way that was so pathetic Laurent almost reached out to him again. Almost.

Instead, Laurent scowled. “Quiet,” he retorted. 

But Damen was undeterred. “Laurent,” he repeated, lashes fluttering as he struggled to stay conscious. “I’m sorry.”

Laurent frowned. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Damen repeated, voice cracking. “For everything.” His breath rattled in his chest. “I never meant…to hurt you. I never want to hurt you.”

Laurent inhaled sharply. He was delirious, the fever manifesting as a scarlet glow in his cheeks, a dazed wildness in his eyes. “Damen…”

Damen grasped at Laurent’s hand suddenly, startling him into silence. His palm was clammy and his grip was weak. “Listen,” he said, “go without me.” Laurent’s brow furrowed. “You can escape this place…you can’t wait for me to heal. Just go. Get out while you still can.”

Laurent stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Go,” Damen pleaded, his eyes beseeching. “Go home.”

Laurent swallowed, and he did reach out then, hand resting lightly on Damen’s uninjured shoulder. “We made an alliance,” he said quietly. “You have held up your end of the bargain. I will hold up mine.”

“But –”

“How cruel do you think I am?” Laurent snapped. “No, don’t answer that. I’m not leaving you alone here on your deathbed, brute. Go to sleep.”

“If I die,” Damen started.

“Don’t die,” Laurent ordered. “Just…rest.”

Damen sighed in defeat, and closed his eyes. 

*

Laurent left the bed to find a book once Damen had finally drifted off again, so when Valerius paid them a visit, Laurent was sitting on the sofa reading about ancient Arlesian customs and trying not to fall asleep himself. 

When he saw the Consul, however, Laurent was at once wide-awake, his body tight with tension as the man approached him with a mild smile. “It is good to see you’re enjoying the books I provided,” Valerius said, stopping behind the sofa and resting a proprietary hand on the back of Laurent’s neck. His ringed fingers were cold and unwelcome against Laurent’s skin. “How are you, Laurent?”

Laurent kept his head down. “Unlike my fighter, I am fine, sir.”

“Ah, yes. Damen,” Valerius murmured, glancing towards the bed. “Admittedly, he’s much tougher than I expected. I was preparing myself for the news of his death this morning, only to find he had survived. A miracle, truly. The gods may favor him – we shall see.”

“Thank you for giving him good treatment, sir,” Laurent said. “It was very kind of you. I…am grateful.”

“Of course,” Valerius replied, his thumb rubbing small circles on the top of Laurent’s spine. “I know you are fond of him, despite his tendency to gamble you away.”

“I am,” Laurent said, a little frantically, “fond of him.” His skin felt too tight, stretched on a fragile frame, his lungs too large in his chest, his heart pounding as the Consul leaned closer. Laurent wished he had stayed with Damen in the bed. Maybe there, he would have been safe from this…this cold touch, this echo of a nightmare Laurent had thought – had prayed – was over. 

“Hm,” Valerius said, as if he hadn’t really heard. 

“Sir,” Laurent said hurriedly, trying to fill the heavy silence, “If…if my fighter had died, what…what would have happened to me?”

Valerius smiled. “Oh, Laurent,” he said, “you would be mine, of course.”

And then Laurent understood. 

The Consul had never intended for Damen to survive the fight with Kakios. Damen was an unwanted obstacle in the Consul’s way, because Damen was the only thing standing between him and Laurent.

Laurent shivered. His throat seemed to be closing up; he was unable to speak, hardly able to breathe.

“I won’t let you fall into another barbaric fighter’s hands,” Valerius continued, voice low and grip on Laurent unyielding. “You deserve so much better…”

A loud cry split the air, a sudden thrash of movement on the bed that send Laurent jolting up and Valerius drawing back. Laurent turned to him, the book lying abandoned on the cushions, Laurent’s feet carrying him instinctively backwards, away from the Consul. “I…I should tend to him,” Laurent stammered.

Valerius inclined his head. “Such an attentive pet,” he said. “He is lucky to have you.” And with that, he turned and left, leaving Laurent clutching at a bedpost to steady himself, trying to slow his shallow breathing. 

Damen let out a pained groan and Laurent whirled to face him, on edge, nearly forgetting his presence. His presence, which had quite possibly just saved Laurent from…

He didn’t want to think about it. Laurent went to Damen’s side quickly, cursing as he felt the heat emanating once more from Damen’s body. Damen’s eyes were still closed, but he was shifting restlessly, and his lips moved in wordless, distressed sounds. Laurent grabbed the cloth from the bowl of water, wringing it out and laying it across Damen’s sweaty brow, shushing him. 

Damen’s nose scrunched up in a way that would have been adorable if Laurent had allowed himself to associate such words with Damen, which he most certainly did not. “Cold,” he grumbled, and Laurent thought he was complaining about the water until he saw the way Damen trembled, body wracked with chills. Damen tried to pull the sheets up around himself and cried out in pain again as his left shoulder moved, fresh red staining the thick bandages.

Laurent smacked his other arm. “Don’t move,” he warned, and Damen’s eyes cracked open. “Not one inch, brute.” Damen closed his eyes again, and made a small sound when Laurent once more curled up against his side, pulling the sheets up around them. Damen was still shivering, but not as violently as before, a soft, contented sigh slipping past his lips as Laurent tucked his head against Damen’s uninjured shoulder. It was…surprisingly comfortable. “Better?” Laurent muttered. 

“I didn’t know you snuggled,” Damen said drowsily. 

“Do you want me to hit you again?” Laurent shot back, but there was no bite to it. “This is not snuggling. This is me preventing you from further injuring yourself and delaying our departure even further.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Damen mumbled, and he sounded sad. His eyes were closed; dark lashes flush against dark cheeks. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, hard. And then, “Do you think our countries are already at war?” 

Laurent blinked. Damen was very still under him, head tipped up towards the ceiling and throat bared, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “I don’t know,” Laurent replied. “Though I’m certain the thought of Akielos crushing Vere in battle once more must delight you.”

Damen opened his eyes then, and they were full of unexpected remorse. “It brings me no joy to think of Akielons or Veretians dying in a pointless war hinged on a fabricated murder plot.” His jaw set. “Your uncle sees people as nothing more than pawns to be used and discarded.”

Laurent raised his head. “Does that surprise you?” Damen did not answer. Laurent sighed. “It may ease your fears to know that my uncle does not do anything simply. Unlike the bastard king of Akielos, he would not rush head-on into an invasion. He is too clever for that.”

Damen relaxed slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “But not clever enough to realize you and I could form an alliance.”

“No,” Laurent agreed darkly. “But he had good reason to believe we would tear each other apart.” His gaze strayed to the pale scars on Damen’s back, the ends of them visible on Damen’s shoulders and sides. “I had a head start, after all.”

Damen hummed sleepily. “I forgive you,” he said.

“For…” Laurent narrowed his eyes. “For almost killing you?”

“Mm-hm.”

“You are a fool,” Laurent said, voice colored with blatant disbelief. “You would not last a week in Vere.”

Damen shrugged, and immediately winced. Laurent gave him a death glare. “Sorry,” Damen whispered.

“A fool,” Laurent repeated, but he stayed in the bed, closing his eyes after a time as Damen slipped off into slumber. Laurent did not sleep; he had no desire for a repeat episode of last night’s dreams. Instead, he thought – of the past, of the present, and of the troubling future. 

Laurent disliked the unexpected turn his life had taken. He disliked the uncertainty of what lay ahead. It…it was supposed to be simple. When he was younger, it had been simple. He knew better than anyone that Auguste’s death and the events that followed had changed him; Laurent had changed because he had to. Bitterness and revenge and grief had shaped him, and maybe the end result was unpleasant but it was necessary. The old Laurent would not have been able to defy his uncle and slay the Prince Killer. 

But neither, it seemed, could the new Laurent. Because his uncle had sent him in chains to a distant isle as a bed slave; and the Prince Killer lay beside him weaker than ever before, and Laurent could do nothing but roll away from his warm skin and soft breaths, resentment and shame warring within him. 

He would not deny that a small part of him was tempted to leave as Damen had pleaded him to. He would not deny that a small part of him was also tempted to carry out his revenge before he left – it would be so easy to slit Damen’s throat while he slept, to smother him with one of the many pillows strewn about the room. 

But it would not be honorable. It would not be justice. It would be as traitorous and deceitful as Damen would expect from a Veretian. As anyone would expect from a Veretian. 

Auguste had fought him honorably. Laurent would do the same. But he would win.

 _No, you won’t,_ said a little voice in his head.

“Shut up,” Laurent told it.

*

Damen was barely lucid at all for the next several days, prompting a steady flow of physicians in their quarters, pouring all manner of remedies down his throat, drenching his wounds with salves that looked more like poison, changing the bandage so many times that Laurent nearly memorized the grisly appearance of the lion’s bite. 

_It might be infected_ , some of the physicians told him as they turned the bed into an impromptu operating table and brought out the scalpels. _We need to cut the dead tissue away and remove any blood clots to reduce further inflammation –_

Laurent stopped listening after that, and huddled miserably on his sofa as the physicians worked, sleeping rarely and lightly. Occasionally he would awake to Damen’s feverish shouts and the barked orders of the physicians to each other as they struggled to sedate him again, to ease the pain that rang out in every sound he made. By the time they left, night had fallen and Damen was exhausted into unconsciousness, soaked in sweat that dampened his ridiculous mop of curls and clung to the thick column of his throat. 

Laurent allowed himself a few moments to appreciate the brute’s finer features before shaking himself and biting his tongue so hard it bled. _No,_ he told himself firmly, but it wasn’t working. He glanced back at Damen’s unfairly appealing face and absurdly large muscles and could not stop the flush on his cheeks and the heat curling low in his belly. It was this sudden, uncontrollable arousal that shocked him into tearing his gaze away, digging his nails into his own palms furiously as he stalked back to the sofa. 

_I forgive you._

“No,” Laurent admonished aloud when he reached it, nestling into the cushions. “We have been over this, Laurent,” he said, staring at his distant reflection in the mirror across the room, a small smudge of white and gold on the blue sofa. More forcefully, “ _We have been over this and the answer is no._ Absolutely _not._ ”

His reflection stared back at him petulantly. “You cannot,” Laurent whispered, voice cracking. “I cannot. Not him.” He closed his eyes. “Please, not _him_.”

The door opened with a low creak. Laurent’s eyes flew open, panic setting in. The Consul. As if things were not already bad enough. Damen was not going to be crying out any time soon.

But it was not Valerius who stepped into the room. It was the Empress, without her guard, letting down her black veil only when the door had shut fully behind her. She regarded Laurent the way a hawk might regard a field mouse that it had failed to catch. Laurent, bemused and still filled with lingering dread, tried to make himself as small as possible before her.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” he murmured as her shadow fell over him.

“Stop groveling,” she muttered, offbeat, her tone missing its usual cold authority. Cautiously, Laurent looked up. Liviana stood several feet away, arms folded, not quite facing him. Her crown glinted in the lamplight. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“Why not?” Laurent asked, carefully.

She seemed frustrated. “I don’t know,” Liviana said. “But I know you are not what you say you are.”

“I am a slave,” Laurent said, quietly, heart pounding. “If I have offended, or…or upset you somehow, I am sorry –”

Liviana faced him then. “You are a very good actor,” she mused. “So good it makes one wonder if it is not all an act.”

The back of Laurent’s neck prickled.

“Ah,” Liviana said. “There it is.”

Laurent eyed her warily. “Why are you here, Your Majesty?”

Liviana’s dress rustled as she paced, a crackle of silk like snake skin. “It is curious, is it not – a Veretian bed slave and an Akielon gladiator who somehow do not despise each other? I am all too aware of the fissure between your countries. I find it… _difficult_ to understand why you are so apparently devoted to him.”

“He is…” Laurent hesitated. “He is a good man.”

Liviana snorted. “Yes? A good man who takes slaves to his bed, willing or not?”

Laurent exhaled. “I am willing,” he said, tilting his head. “Look at him; who would not be?”

Liviana’s laughter somehow sounded like wind chimes and broken glass at the same time. “I, for one,” she said, “prefer the fairer sex. And, mangled as your fighter is now, I admit I fail to see the appeal.” She paused. “How is he faring?”

Laurent looked down then. “He has an infection,” he whispered. “They do not know if he…” He steeled himself. “His fever is very high and they are uncertain if he will survive.”

Liviana looked again at the bed, her brows drawing together. “I see. It would be more difficult to carry out your plans with one of you dead, now wouldn’t it?”

Laurent’s fingers curled tight in the cushions. “Our…plans? I don’t understand –”

“The two of you were allies long before you arrived,” Liviana interrupted. “Of that, I am sure. Why or how, I am less sure of, but I am no fool. I will not make the same mistakes of my parents and welcome you mainlanders with open arms. If you are colluding against the Empire; conspiring against the Crown and the Senate, I will discover it. And when I do, I _will_ make an example out of you and your Akielon, if he is not already six feet under. That end would be merciful compared what I would do to you.”

Luckily, Laurent was very good at keeping his expression neutral. He widened his eyes slightly, innocently. “Your Majesty, I don’t understand,” he repeated. “We are your subjects now; we would never harm you. Surely you must have known that, for you to visit unprotected and unarmed –”

“Who said anything about being unarmed?” she retorted. “Don’t play games with me. This is not Vere. Nor is it Akielos, where a king and the heir can die within the same year and a bastard takes the throne unchallenged.” Liviana’s lip curled. “This is Artes, and none of your mainlander friends can save you here.”

“Friends?” Laurent echoed. “Your Majesty, I have no friends there. Why do you think they sent me here?”

“I think they sent you here to murder me just as the mainlanders murdered my parents ten years ago.”

Laurent paused, reconsidered her. Young, yes, she was young. Too young. He should have realized sooner. “Murdered?”

“Yes.” Liviana folded her arms. “And the Akielons did their fair share of murdering, too – plundering our vessels at sea and making mainland trade all but impossible for over two decades. King Theomedes did nothing to stop them. He feared us, as did Vere. The mainland tried to crush us, as they did centuries ago when they drove us out of our own lands.”

“The ruins,” Laurent murmured. “Yours?”

“They should not be ruins,” Liviana retorted. “This city is what they would have been, once. What your people destroyed in their hurry to kill and conquer. So we left. We found these isles and even then we were not free from the mainland’s tyranny.” 

Her eyes were distant, gazing out at the gap through the curtains, at the starry skies and the white rooftops, at the sea’s endless blackness. “After my parents were killed in their beds by Veretian blades, we withdrew amidst thinly veiled threats.” She turned her dark gaze on Laurent. “We are stronger than Vere and Akielos now,” Liviana told him, tone filled with conviction. “Your monarchs know it. So they send their ships to us now, and in return we do not rain fire down upon your countries. We remain a well-kept merchants’ secret, a rumor of a powerful kingdom at sea, and you enjoy peace and prosperity as long as you do not meddle in Artesian affairs ever again.”

“And you believe we are here to do exactly that,” Laurent finished. He shook his head. “Your Majesty, neither of us wants war. That is the opposite of what we –”

“Then I suggest,” Liviana said, “you behave. You think Veretian punishments are brutal?” Her eyes flashed. “Where do you think they got their inspiration from?”

Yes, she was young. But like him, she had been shaped by the forces of death and betrayal, and like him, she yearned for a chance to carry out her vengeance. She would take any excuse she could get to lash out at those who had hurt her. Laurent knew what that felt like – the evidence of his impulsive retaliation lay on the bed, in scars on skin that would fade but never be forgotten, even if they claimed to be forgiven. 

So all he said was, “I have lost loved ones, too.”

Liviana stared at him for what felt like a long time. Then she drew up her veil and turned to go, pausing on the threshold. “Let us hope you do not lose any more,” she said, and left.

The room felt empty and still in her wake. Laurent looked at the bed, at Damen’s unmoving form, and his chest ached. Damen was not a brother. Damen was not even a friend. So why did the thought of losing him hurt so very much?

*

 _The fever is going down,_ the physicians told him on the fifth day. _The swelling has stopped._

On the sixth day, Damen opened his eyes, not a bleary sliver of hazy brown but fully, alert and soft when he saw Laurent hovering over him. “Have you moved at all?” Damen joked, voice coming out as a low croak.

Laurent tried not to make his relief too obvious. “I’ve moved plenty,” he retorted, “but you wouldn’t know, seeing as how you were unresponsive for almost a week.”

Damen blinked. “Was I? I…” He paused. “Are you _upset_ with me?”

Laurent folded his arms. “If you died, I would have killed you,” he said shortly.

Damen grinned weakly, eyes crinkling up at the corners. “I’m touched, Laurent,” he crooned. “I didn’t know you _cared_.”

Laurent scowled. “I _care_ about escaping and having an Akielon brute at my side to do all the dirty work for me.”

Damen didn’t seem very offended, yawning and nestling back into the sheets. “I missed your back talk,” he mumbled into the pillow. 

Laurent was glad Damen could not see his face.

*

After the fever broke, Damen’s recovery sped up tremendously, and the flow of physicians lessened to near nonexistence. Damen was still under orders to stay in bed and rest, and was told not to move his shoulder at all by a stern-faced surgeon who told him in graphic, disgusting detail what exactly could happen to the wound if he did. Because he was bedridden and only allowed the use of one hand, Laurent was tasked with helping him change the dressings and make sure Damen didn’t die of hunger.

Laurent did not know how it was humanly possible to eat so much after nearly dying, but Damen nonetheless inhaled enough food for three Laurents. Laurent mocked him for it the first time, but then Damen playfully pushed a sweetmeat between his lips and Laurent almost choked. 

“Are you alright?” Damen had asked, eyes huge. “I didn’t mean to –”

“Fine,” Laurent wheezed, “but if you ever do that again, I will bite you harder than the lion did.”

Damen gave him an apologetic look and, true to his word, didn’t do it again. Laurent, meanwhile, tried to reconcile with the fact that it was not the sweetmeat that had almost choked him but rather the sudden thought of other reasons for Damen’s large ( _brutish, thick, calloused_ ) fingers to be inside of his mouth. 

Laurent had heard of people going insane after being locked in the same room for days on end. Perhaps that was what was happening to him. It was the only explanation he could accept, anyway. 

*

Two weeks after the attack, Damen got out of bed.

Laurent heard the bedframe creaking and the distinct sound of a very large person attempting to tiptoe across a stone floor. Rubbing his eyes, Laurent sat up from where he’d been lying on the couch, staring at Damen, who was halfway to the bath, paused mid-step and caught in Laurent’s incredulous glare.

“What,” Laurent gritted out, “do you think you’re doing?”

Damen bit his lip. “I was going to bathe –”

“Before sunrise?”

Damen sighed. “Yes? I didn’t mean to wake you –”

Laurent got up, still glaring. “Well, you did. What, you were just going to try to wash with one hand and a body covered in half-healed wounds? Don’t be stupid.”

“Laurent, I just need to bathe –”

“On that, we agree,” Laurent retorted, sniffing the air delicately. “You smell like death with a faint undertone of lion guts.”

Damen looked affronted. “I do _not_!”

Laurent rolled his eyes, taking a step towards him. “Get in the bath, before your stench spreads to the rest of the room.”

Damen’s lips parted. He looked at Laurent carefully. “Are you going to attend me?” he murmured, and it felt like the temperature in the room rose suddenly, making Laurent’s face hot and his clothes itch. 

Laurent pointed to the tub. “Do I really need to spell it out for you? Get. In. The. Bath.” He folded his arms. “I’m giving you five seconds, and then I’m going back to sleep.”

Laurent had never seen anyone move so fast.

Damen peered at him from over the edge of the tub. “Was that under five seconds?” he asked.

Laurent was most definitely going insane. “Yes,” he said grudgingly, padding across the cold tile and tugging the privacy curtain shut behind him when he reached the bath, sealing off the bath from the rest of the room. Laurent regretted it almost as soon as he did it, because it had the unexpected effect of making the space feel far too small, with Damen and the bath taking up most of it. 

Laurent ignored the former of those two things as best he could, instead going to the shelves stocked with various soaps, oils, and towels. It was more than any slave in Vere or Akielos would ever be given, even if they were the slave of a high-ranking official – Liviana’s words echoed in his mind, and he knew they had at least some truth in them. Artes was wealthy and powerful beyond measure.

He settled on a silver tray with small purple soaps cut into flower shapes in the hopes that it might irritate Damen, but when he brought it over with some towels, Damen only raised an eyebrow. “Pretty,” he said. “But what do they smell like?”

In reply, Laurent shoved one of the soaps under his nose.

“Hm,” Damen said, eyes twinkling. “Lavender.” He tilted his head and smirked. “Adequate.”

Flushing, Laurent snatched the soap back and looked down, busying himself with soaping up the cloth. This back and forth banter was…different than before, without its old edge of spite and scorn. 

It was difficult to speak harshly to Damen when he was struggling to remove his bandage, revealing the painful assortment of scabbing punctures and gashes beneath. It was difficult to speak harshly to him when he turned obediently at Laurent’s quiet command, bringing Laurent face-to-face with the wound. Laurent had seen battle, he had seen men die. But he could not deny that Damen’s injury was one of the worst he’d ever seen.

So Laurent paused before touching the cloth to Damen’s chest, looking him in the eyes seriously. “If anything hurts, say it,” Laurent told him.

He expected Damen to protest, not to incline his head with half-lidded eyes in silent acquiescence. And Damen didn’t stop him, not even when the cloth neared the edges of the claw-mark gashes over his abdomen, not even when the cloth started to drip pink. 

Not even when Laurent, slowly, holding his breath without quite realizing it, ran the cloth over the pale scar on Damen’s collar and asked, “Who gave you this?”

Part of him wanted Damen to say it. To bare the truth before both of them. But Laurent knew he would not as soon as he felt Damen tense under his palms, an abrupt change from his previous laxness.

But Damen did answer, and it was not entirely a lie. “A Veretian soldier at Marlas,” he replied. The water sloshed against the sides of the tub as he shifted so Laurent could wash his left arm, which was draped gingerly over the edge of the bath. “He was…the best soldier I’ve ever fought.”

“But you were better?” Laurent’s cloth neared the lion’s bite. “You killed him?”

Damen swallowed. “I was better,” he said. “I killed him.”

“Of course.”

“It was a near thing, though,” Damen continued, half to himself. “It could have turned in his favor. A few inches lower, and it would have been me on the ground.”

Laurent’s hand shook, the cloth brushing sharply against one of the bite marks. Damen hissed, a thin trickle of blood running down his broad chest. Instinctively, Laurent reached out and stopped it halfway with a finger, the red staining his pale skin, dripping into the bathwater in a scarlet blossom. He could feel Damen’s heartbeat against his knuckles.

Damen stared at him. Laurent stared back. 

“I think,” Laurent said in a voice he did not recognize as his own, “you can attend to the rest yourself.”

Damen’s gaze broke, fell. “Sometimes, I wonder if it should have been me on the ground.”

Laurent stepped away, wiping his finger off carefully on a clean cloth. _It should have,_ he wanted to say, but could not. He turned on his heel swiftly when he was done, tossing the cloth to the ground, longing to be free of the small, silent space.

But in front of the curtain he paused, and looked back at Damen, huddled in the bath, holding one of the flower soaps delicately between thumb and forefinger, staring at it as if it held all the answers to the universe. 

“But where would I be now without you, brute?” Laurent asked, in a lighter tone than he meant.

Guilt flashed brightly in Damen’s eyes, so obvious that if Laurent had not already known, he would have realized then. 

“Somewhere much better,” Damen said. The soap crumbled in his hands.

*

Three weeks after the attack, the city celebrated yet another festival, but the god this one honored was not quite so obscure. It was, as Valerius cheerfully informed them, Vestalia – the Festival of Vesta. Laurent was unsure why a goddess of the hearth and the home would be given such honor, but Valerius explained that Vesta was also considered the protector of Artes, and thus the entire city must be purified in her honor. There was no work during the week of the festival, and sure enough, the mills on the city outskirts stilled, the streets were cleared of carts and cleaned completely; even the bustling harbors seemed to pause. Only the smoke in the chimneys remained, as a tribute to Vesta. 

Unlike Lupercalia, it was a quiet, sacred time. Valerius invited Laurent to attend the temple ceremonies with him, but Laurent politely declined under the pretense of worry for Damen’s health. Truth be told, Damen was no longer entirely bedridden, though whenever the physicians caught him walking around the room he always got an earful and was (much to his consternation and Laurent’s amusement) hastily tucked back into bed. 

Laurent leaned against the window, watching the people stream out slowly into the streets, carrying flowers and lit torches with them, leaving the blossoms strewn behind them and lighting the streetlamps as they passed. In the distance, the motionless mills were draped in garlands of flowers and vines, and now and then he spotted a donkey or mule decorated with similar wreaths, carrying laughing children through the streets. The horizon was a fading coral and orange as the sun sank below it, casting the world in shades of muted gold. 

“Do you feel blessed yet?” Laurent said absently to Damen, who was watching the scene from the bed, propped up on his good arm. “Have the fires of Vesta ignited in your very soul?”

Damen chuckled. “Unfortunately, no, it seems the virgin goddess has not deemed me pure enough to bless.” 

“I wonder why that could be,” Laurent said, tone dripping with sarcasm. “You are, after all, the epitome of chastity and virtue.”

“I resent that,” Damen laughed, tossing a pillow at him. “Clearly she sees something in me.”

“Hm.” Laurent looked out at the city, the sun glowing like a dying ember above the distant treetops. The light made something small and metal on the end table flash, and when Laurent picked it up he saw it was the silver pin the priestesses had given Damen a month ago. “You actually believe you made contact with a deity?”

Damen shook his head. “I don’t know. I just heard a fire when there wasn’t one, and then there was that wind…it could have been a parlor trick. But it’s…comforting to think there’s a god looking out for you, isn’t it?”

Laurent sniffed. “They are doing a terrible job of that, aren’t they?”

Damen shrugged. “It could be worse.”

Laurent shuddered despite himself. Damen was right. It could be much, much worse. “Fine, then,” Laurent muttered. “What kind of god would I have?”

“Is there a god of serpents?” 

Laurent threw the pillow back at him, hard.

“Ow!” Damen winced as he sat up, throwing the offending pillow across the room to avoid any further battle. “Kidding. But, if we’re being serious...” He scrutinized Laurent for a few moments. “Some kind of sun god, maybe?”

“Original,” Laurent retorted, though he quite liked that idea.

“No, not the sun,” Damen reiterated. “The moon.” He smiled. “That would suit you, I think.”

The sun was warm and bright and alive. The moon, however, was cold and dark and lifeless. Laurent frowned. “Just as the virgin goddess of the hearth and the home suits you?”

Damen hummed. “She does, in a way,” he admitted. “I love my home, and more than anything I want to return to it. Maybe if such a deity does exist, she sensed that.”

“More than anything?” 

“I know you hate Akielos. But I miss it dearly. Surely you must feel something similar for Vere?”

Laurent bit his lip, turning away from the window. “I…have been thinking. When we return – if we return, I…” He sighed. “You have been in chains for long enough. Being in chains myself has been…” He made a face. “An educational experience. And I won’t try to force you into them again.”

Damen’s eyes widened. “You’re…letting me go back to Akielos?”

“If you continue to be my ally as you swore, the moment we reach the mainland, you are free of me.” Laurent’s fingers twisted in the curtains. “That is all.”

Damen did not make a joyous sound, nor did he thank Laurent profusely. Instead he said, “What about you?”

“Me?” Laurent blinked, surprised. 

“The Regent won’t be happy to see you,” Damen started. “He’ll have the Council wrapped around his little finger by now and –”

“I,” Laurent snapped, “can take care of myself, brute.”

“Clearly,” Damen said. “That’s why you’re a pleasure slave on a remote island. Oh, wait.”

Laurent glowered at the darkening sky. “It will be a relief to finally be rid of you,” he muttered. 

Damen sighed. “Trust me, the feeling is mutual.”

*

Four weeks after the attack, Damen went back into the fighting pits. 

Laurent was against it, but he had little say in the matter, and he was assured that it would be an easy win to help Damen back into the swing of things. Besides, his shoulder had more or less healed – the blood was gone and the scar tissue was setting in, and all the more minor wounds were already reduced to thin, pale lines already beginning to fade into the vast collection of scars on Damen’s body. 

So Damen was taken to the Ludus Magnus early in the morning and Laurent was left for the first time in a long time to his own devices. He didn’t do much with it – he thumbed through a couple of books, but he had read them all already and quickly grew bored. He searched the room (for the umpteenth time) for some object to aid them in escape, some secret entrance even, and came up short. He went over the possible means of escape. He hoped Damen would not get injured further in today’s fight and cause further delay. 

Laurent wanted to be free of this jeweled prison once and for all. He didn’t know how much more of it he could stand. 

He was contemplating how many scarves it would take to make a rope from their window to the palace gardens when the door opened. Laurent turned automatically – sure enough, it was the usual two slaves sent to bring him to the baths before the fights. He sighed and went with them, the trio walking in companionable silence down to the baths. He hadn’t missed these baths, exactly, but it was pleasant enough to feel the steam on his face as they reached the one reserved for slaves.

They waited quietly while he unpinned the chiton and slipped quickly into the water, and then went about their quick routine of shampooing and washing, the heady scent of oil and soap making Laurent a bit dizzy. There seemed to be more steam than usual, but Laurent relished it, leaning his head back against the edge and letting his eyes fall nearly-shut.

Then the heaviness started setting into his limbs and he realized, with slow panic, that the steam was not just steam. And when he turned his head, which took a great deal of effort, he saw the two slaves had cloths tied around the lower halves of their faces to block out the drug, their brows furrowed in something like sympathy as Laurent struggled to resist whatever he was being forced to inhale. Chalis, perhaps, or something like it – but strong enough to make spots dance before his eyes and for him to sink lower in the water, the possibility of drowning suddenly a very real one.

Drowning might be better than what was about to happen. Because he knew. He already knew, even before they said it, that this was not for Damen. He almost wished it was. 

But when they half-carried him back to his quarters and deposited him unceremoniously on the neatly-made bed, Laurent saw that his intended recipient was already there, sitting on the sofa with hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes never leaving him.

“Hello, Laurent,” said Valerius.

Laurent’s hands fisted in the sheets frantically as he fought to sit up, to regain use of his limbs and control of his slack body. But the silk kept sliding through his fingers, and as the Consul rose from the sofa, Laurent could do nothing but squeeze his eyes shut and pray for it to be over soon.

“Nothing to say?” Valerius murmured, the bed dipping as he sat on the edge. He stroked Laurent’s cheek. “What a shame. You have such a talented tongue. I wonder what else it can do.”

Laurent was shaking. He could do nothing else.

“Don’t be scared,” Valerius said, settling more fully on the bed, shadow falling over him. “Why would you be scared of me, after letting that hulking barbarian take you? I can only imagine how roughly and rudely he uses you. Well, you needn’t fear that from me. As long as you’re good.”

He touched Laurent’s hip with intent. Laurent tried to twist away, and Valerius clucked his tongue. “This will be so much nicer if you don’t resist.”

“No,” Laurent choked out, barely intelligible, curling away. “ _Stop_ –”

Valerius did not stop. He stroked along Laurent’s side, lingering at his chest. “Hush, hush. You’re really quite lovely, Laurent. It’s a shame you were made to lay with such a beast of a man. I wonder, did he even look at you as he did it?”

Laurent was still afraid, but now, he was angry too, and he could feel the tears forming in his eyes, tears of sheer frustration. “He’ll cut your hands off,” Laurent snarled, and though it was slurred, Valerius heard it. 

“Will he?” Valerius said coolly. “See, I don’t think he will. Because he’ll never know, Laurent. He’s at a victory celebration right now, and he has all the whores he could ever want there. He doesn’t care about you.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Laurent said.

Valerius slapped him across the face. “Tsk, tsk. Not a very talented tongue after all.” He reached into the pockets of his robes and, to Laurent’s horror, pulled out a black strip of cloth and tied it tight across Laurent’s mouth. “I was hoping we wouldn’t need this, but you just had to be difficult.”

Laurent bit and fought against the gag but all his sounds came out muffled, his jaw aching as he tried to scream only to get hit again. Valerius’s eyes narrowed. “There’s plenty more where that came from,” he warned, before pulling at the chiton’s pins and shoving Laurent’s legs apart. Laurent closed his eyes. It would be over soon. It would be over soon. Already, he could feel himself growing distant, growing numb to the unwanted hands on his body, letting himself be used again.

“ _Get away from him._ ”

Damen’s voice jolted him out of his stupor. Laurent thought he must be imagining things, hallucinating the savior he had pled for years ago, but then he saw him, hulking and barbaric and beautiful in the doorway, striding towards the bed with fury written in every line of his face, defined in every unyielding edge of his body. He was not bleeding, he was not hurt, he was whole and he was _there_.

Valerius startled but did not move away; that was his first mistake. His second was saying; “Just wait your turn.”

Damen wrenched him off of Laurent with both hands around Valerius’s neck, sending them both crashing into the end table, smashing bottles of oil and wine and Laurent knew there was a struggle, could turn his head just enough to see Valerius kicking and scratching, but he never really stood a chance, and a few seconds later Damen’s hands twisted with a sick _crack_ and Valerius’s head lolled crookedly atop his body, still.

Damen rushed to the bed. Laurent said his name like a prayer, and when Damen gathered him up in his arms he turned his face into his chest, into warm skin and strong muscle that wrapped around him securely, gentle hands untying the gag and massaging his sore jaw.

“Laurent,” Damen whispered. “I’m sorry, I should have realized as soon as I didn’t see you in the stands – did he – are you…”

Laurent clung to him, still hiding his face. “He drugged me,” Laurent managed. “But you…you got here before he…”

Damen exhaled. “I’m taking you away from here,” Damen said. “Right now. We are leaving, we are escaping, right now.”

“You killed him,” Laurent whispered. 

“I should have done it sooner,” Damen said, hefting Laurent up more fully into his arms. He glanced at the body, at the bruised neck and sightless eyes. “Time to go.”

Laurent lifted his head. “Your shoulder –”

“Fuck my shoulder,” Damen muttered, and Laurent let himself be carried out of the room and away from Valerius forever.

*

Damen headed out of the palace the only way they knew – the way Valerius had taken them out before Lupercalia. The passages and people blurred past them – Laurent could feel the drug wearing off but it was a slow thing, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to walk on his own. Damen deflected any curious glances simply by acting as if he belonged, walking through the palace like he owned it and knew exactly what he was doing there. And, collar around his throat be damned, slaves and nobility alike let him pass without comment. 

The warm afternoon air washed over them as Damen reached the stairs down to the main drive, and veered away from the palace gates, instead heading into the gardens off to the left. He strayed from the path, weaving between ornamental fruit trees and fragrant flower beds with increasing urgency. Laurent didn’t understand his hurry until he heard a loud commotion from the palace, the screams of servants carrying out through the open windows and the clash of metal as guards streamed forth from the very doors they’d left from. 

Damen swore, gathering Laurent closer to his chest. The gardens stretched before them, a vast green impediment to freedom. The trees grew thicker the farther they went, until neither of them could see what lay on the other side. But they had no choice except to continue forward – the palace guards were fanning out behind them in droves, searching for the murderous gladiator and his pet. 

Laurent knew, deep down, that they weren’t going to make it. But it was so easy to pretend he was safe as long as he was in Damen’s arms.

The irony of that was not lost on him.

Sure enough, a particularly swift guard spotted them a few minutes later and called out to the others, the hiss of a steel blade being drawn making his intentions very clear. “Don’t look back,” Damen said grimly, and broke into a run. He was sweating, his mouth twisted in pain as his shoulder strained to hold Laurent up, the barely-healed scar looking dangerously close to reopening. 

Laurent looked back. Dozens of guards, all armed and armored, rushing towards them with loud shouts, warnings, accusations, a wave of sound that warped in Laurent’s hazy head, making everything somehow slower.

And then Damen skidded to a halt and Laurent turned his head to what lay before them and there was nothing but the sea, a cliff dropping away into nothingness and the waves crashing against the rocks below.

They were very sharp rocks. But when he looked back – they were very sharp swords.

Damen was panting, his heart like rolling thunder in his chest. “Can you swim,” he gasped, and Laurent choked on laughter. If he had been close to drowning in the baths, the ocean would surely swallow him whole.

“Stop right there, murderer!” the guards cried, and Laurent saw one of them notch an arrow into his bow, raising it as Damen took a step closer to the cliff’s edge. “Come quietly, or we will use force.”

Damen stood his ground. Laurent watched the man’s hands tighten on the bow, the string quivering, the man aiming.

Damen took another step backwards just as the man loosed the arrow.

It was aimed not at Damen, but at Laurent (or perhaps the man just had very bad aim). In fact, it would have struck him square in the chest if Damen had not twisted at the last second, catching the arrow in his back before stumbling and falling spectacularly over the cliff, dragging Laurent down with him.

Laurent might have screamed, he did not know, for all he could hear was the wind rushing in his ears and then the hard _smack_ of the water, cold and suffocating, filling up his mouth, his nose, his lungs. And suddenly the drug was forgotten in favor of survival, his veins filled with desperate adrenaline that made his limbs move, legs kicking until he broke the surface, coughing and disoriented, a huge wave nearly bringing him back down again.

The water was gray and white with foam everywhere except a patch of sea several feet away, which was roiling and crimson, and as Laurent started towards it Damen surfaced, his body heaved against the rocks. Laurent could see the arrow had either passed through his body or been knocked free by the surf, because he was bleeding heavily and barely holding onto the rock, struggling to keep his head above water. The narrow shore was a few meters away, but Damen was in no shape to get there by himself.

Laurent called to him, swimming over and taking Damen’s arm, slinging it around his shoulders, half-supporting him in the tumultuous waters. Damen was lighter in the water or else Laurent would have been unable to move him at all – he slumped against Laurent’s side but managed to avoid crashing into any more rocks as Laurent swam them both to safety.

When the waves carried them to the shore, Damen got unsteadily to his feet, and Laurent could see the arrow wound – a clean shot, small but bloody, splattering the pebbles as Damen swayed and staggered onward. Laurent rushed to his side, his own legs equally unsteady but growing stronger, especially when he spotted the cave in the cliff face a little ways off. He pointed to it. “Walk,” he said, and Damen tried.

But by the time they reached the cave, he collapsed in the mouth of it, and Laurent could do nothing but join him where he had fallen, sitting against the wave-carved wall and surveying the damage. 

“We need to stop the bleeding,” he declared, and promptly unpinned the sash from Damen’s waist, winding it around his upper chest tightly. It proved surprisingly effective, staunching the flow and keeping the color in Damen’s face, but the evidence of how much he’d lost already stained the pebbles luridly. “Are you utterly incapable of avoiding near death experiences?” Laurent snapped. “No wonder you look like you fell into a briar patch, you reckless _idiot_.”

“Laurent,” Damen rasped, soft and sorry, gazing up at him, hand lifting and then falling back, useless at his side. 

Laurent leaned closer at the sound of his name, fingertips tracing over Damen’s cheek, brushing a wet curl of hair back from his eyes; Damen’s bright brown eyes that looked at him without spite or envy or lust or a mixture of the three but with what Laurent now knew was just pure, genuine compassion. Only one person had ever looked at him like that before, and they were dead. Dead by Damen’s hand.

“You,” Laurent whispered, and then again, overwhelmed, “ _you._ ” And then, with more instinct than thought, he closed the space between them and kissed Damen. 

It should have felt wrong. It should have made guilt twist painfully inside of him but instead it filled him with warmth to press closer, tilting Damen’s head up to his, his mouth pliant and startlingly soft under Laurent’s. Damen made a low noise of initial surprise that buzzed between them, but then he was pressing back eagerly, mouth opening hotly, breath feathering across Laurent’s lips as Laurent pulled away, dazed.

Damen did not try to pull him back into the kiss; of course he did not. Laurent knew he would not, or he would not have kissed him in the first place. But why had he kissed him in the first place?

“This is when you say that was a mistake and it’s not going to happen again,” Damen supplied helpfully, a furrow between his brows.

Laurent still had a hand on his jaw. It was very warm. “It’s going to happen again,” Laurent replied, and true to his word it did, but this time Damen reached up and touched him, cautiously, a large hand sliding through his hair and cupping the back of his head, a sensation that should have felt proprietary but only felt tender. And this time, when Damen’s lips parted, Laurent did not shy back, and they both tasted like saltwater but it was _good_ , it was so good, and Laurent could not believe he had gone twenty years without this. 

He kept forgetting to breathe and his mouth felt clumsy against Damen’s; he knew how to do this only in theory. But Damen clearly wasn’t complaining, drawing Laurent closer until their chests were touching and Laurent was half-sprawled over him, hands sliding down to rest in the hollow’s of Damen’s collarbones, an attempt to anchor himself as he became lost in this new, easy, soft pleasure. Damen’s hand smoothed down the back of Laurent’s neck, following the curve of his spine, stopping at the small of his back. Laurent wished it would move lower.

When the kiss broke, they stayed close, foreheads touching and breaths mingling. Damen was smiling slightly, but it was sad. Laurent made a quiet, questioning noise.

“This is goodbye, then?” Damen murmured. 

Laurent sat up abruptly, eyes narrowing. “Goodbye?”

Damen blinked up at him. “You’re leaving,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“I am doing no such thing,” Laurent snapped. “You’re injured –”

“And I’m also a wanted criminal,” Damen interrupted. “You’re not safe as long as you’re with me. Get out of here, find a ship, go back to – mmph!”

Laurent discovered that kissing Damen was a highly effective way of shutting him up. 

“No,” he mumbled against Damen’s lips. “Allies, remember?”

Damen grabbed his arms, his grip firm around Laurent’s biceps. “Laurent, listen to me,” he pleaded, “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I know you must have some reason. Is it…is it because you feel you owe me a favor for killing Valerius? You owe me nothing –”

Laurent frowned. “Am I not allowed to do things simply because I want to?”

“You don’t want this,” Damen whispered. “You don’t want _me_.”

His words were all the more painful because Laurent knew exactly why he was saying them; knew exactly why they _should_ be true. 

But they weren’t. 

“Don’t tell me what I do or do not want,” Laurent retorted, cool and sharp. 

Damen’s face crumpled as he realized Laurent was not going anywhere. Slowly and with obvious discomfort, Damen rolled onto his right side, away from Laurent, his scarred back overlapped by the bloodied sash. “You’re making a mistake,” Damen said in a low voice that echoed through the cave eerily, fading into the sound of the waves. 

Laurent folded his knees up to his chest and leaned his head against the briny rocks, his fingertips trailing through the tiny tide pools around them, watching a small blue crab climb the treacherous bridge from pool to pool. Outside, the waves pounded against the cliffs and the sky darkened with dying daylight. Seabirds shrieked distantly, mournful cries that layered over each other in a melancholic chorus. And, under all the sounds in a low, angry hum, Laurent could hear the cacophony caused by their escape, the raised voices of men and the pounding of hooves growing closer and closer.

Laurent closed his eyes, and waited.

And when the voices and the hooves reached them, Laurent did not fight back.

*

They were taken in chains to a cell in the bowels of the palace, surrounded by more guards than Laurent could count. Laurent kept his head down but Damen glared at their captors, the muscles in his arms bulging as he struggled uselessly against the restraints. He was in no shape to fight back anyway – there was a physician with them, and once they’d reached the cell she had been sent in to give Damen proper bandages and ointment. 

Laurent suspected the physician was a she because they thought Damen was less likely to hurt her. Laurent wasn’t so sure about that, but Damen was in pain and behaved long enough for her to escape unscathed. 

They were left alone in the cell for a long time. Laurent could not help but remember what had happened the last time they were in a cell together, and shuddered. He was not sure whether it was out of revulsion or desire. 

But they were not drugged this time, and Damen was clearly not in the mood. He had been silent since the cell door closed behind them, and he sat hunched in the corner miserably, dark eyes downcast. 

Laurent did not know what to do except to wait, again.

*

When the next day dawned, the cell door opened. Laurent wasn’t sure who he was expecting – the physician, a guard, maybe even Consul Otho – but it was the Empress herself who strode in, dismissing her guard with a wave of her hand. The door locked again, and the three of them watched each other with wary eyes.

“Hello,” the Empress said. “I am very disappointed in both of you, but it was only a matter of time.”

Laurent looked at her steadily. “You are imagining a scheme against you when there is none,” he said.

“Oh?” the Empress said, folding her arms. “Am I truly imagining it, Prince Laurent de Vere?”

Damen’s head snapped up. Laurent schooled his features into a neutral expression. There was no use in denying it. “What gave it away?”

She scoffed. “Everything. But specifically? The lovely horse Valerius gave me for my birthday. He spoke of your expertise on the subject of horses, and the pieces finally fell into place. Why exactly you are here…that is still unclear, but I seriously doubt it is to parley, especially since you have just murdered my First Consul.”

“That was me,” Damen snapped. “Not him. It’s not his fault –”

“And you,” the Empress cut in, shaking her head. “It took me longer to figure out, but when I did…Akielos is nearly as duplicitous as Vere these days, it seems.”

Laurent’s breath caught. Damen got to his feet with a rattle of chains, facing her with clenched fists. “No,” he said, gaze darting to Laurent. “Don’t you dare say another word.”

“And what if I do?” she countered. “Would you break my neck, too, to keep your secret? Because it must be a secret, or he would never have agreed to remain at your side.”

Damen lunged forward; the Empress was forced back. He was shaking. 

"Kill me, then, if you must," the Empress said coolly, not breaking Damen's gaze even as she stood backed up against the wall, head tilted up defiantly. "After all, murder is in your nature, Prince Damianos."

Damen released her with a low, harsh sound, eyes wide. "No -"

"Yes," the Empress said. She looked at Laurent, slumped against the far wall. "How does it feel, I wonder, to know that you have rolled over for your brother's killer?"

Damen was panicking, stepping away, looking as if he'd been slapped. "He never -"

"I am well aware of who he is." Laurent raised his head, looking at her steadily. Damen stared at him, mouth agape. "It is an unfortunate irony that the man who killed Auguste is also the one who saved me from being yet another plaything in your dearly departed Consul’s bed."

The Empress paused then, her expression growing troubled. "I was aware of Valerius's...proclivities. I had hoped he would not..." She frowned, looking at Damen with new eyes. "You claim to have killed him to defend Prince Laurent, then? Not as a rebellious act of violence?"

Damen eyed her warily, his dark, flat gaze flicking between the Empress and Damen like a caged animal. "Yes," he muttered, looking as if he wished to say more.

"So you broke his neck."

Damen bristled, hands clenching into fists. "You weren't there," Damen growled. "He was going to -"

"Damianos, stop," Laurent said sharply, and Damen fell silent, looking hurt and bewildered and upset all at once.

"I'm sorry," the Empress said. "I would not have chosen Valerius as my First Consul if I had any say in the matter. The Senate elects the Consuls, not I. And while Valerius was a decent Consul, he was a vile man." She nodded to Damen. "I do not hold it against you for killing him. But the Artesian people do."

"And the people demand justice," Laurent said slowly.

"Justice?" the Empress scoffed. "The people cared little for Valerius. They care little for justice. The people demand blood."

Damen staggered, his back hitting the grimy stone wall heavily. "You're going to have us killed?"

"Both of you?" The Empress shook her head. "Tempting though it is to snuff out both the mainland heirs in one foul swoop, the crime is not Prince Laurent's. No, Damianos, your head is the only one on the block."

Damen was having difficulty breathing. Laurent had never seen him like this before, and it took him a moment to realize what it was – Damen was afraid. No, not just afraid; _terrified_.

Turning away from him, Laurent eyed the Empress coolly. “And what will you do with me?”

The Empress sniffed. “Send you away from my lands, what else? I have no desire for a Veretian snake to remain in my court, as a pet or otherwise.”

Laurent lifted his head. “So you would have no objection to me meeting the same end as Damianos?”

The Empress, for the first time, was stunned into silence. 

Damen’s protest cut through the air as Laurent expected it to. “What are you _doing_?! You can’t –!”

“I am the Crown Prince of Vere,” Laurent said. “I can do as I please.” He turned back to the Empress, raising an eyebrow. “So?”

“Are you asking if I want you dead or not?” she replied. “Because I believe you already know the answer.” Her eyes narrowed. “What I do not understand is _why_ you would wish to join the Akielon heir in public execution.”

Laurent swallowed, ducking his head and biting his lip, letting his composure slip away. “I…” He glanced at Damen, flushing and looking back up at the Empress. “I’m ashamed to say,” he whispered, “that I have fallen for him, completely and irrevocably.”

Damen’s gaze cut into him, sharp as the edge of a sword.

“Your brother’s killer,” the Empress said slowly. “Even though you knew all along that he was Damianos –”

“ _Yes_ ,” Laurent spat, letting his frustration seep into his tone. “I’ve fallen for my brother’s killer; do you want me to say it again? Don’t you see? How am I supposed to live with that?” His voice trembled, cracked. “Every time I look at him I see him murdering Auguste again and again but I still want him; it’s sick, I’m sick.” Laurent closed his eyes. “Even if he dies, I will be haunted. So let me die too, please, _please_.” He wrapped his arms around himself. “I just…I just want to see Auguste again.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Damen said roughly. “He’s lying, he has to be lying, let him go –”

“No,” said the Empress, thoughtful. “I don’t think I will, since he asked so nicely.” She inclined her head. “It is final. The two of you will be executed tomorrow morning. Together. I do so love a good tragedy.”

“ _No_ ,” Damen breathed, horrified. 

She looked at him with something akin to pity. “But, because of the nature of your crime, I will allow certain concessions to be made. I will allow you both to die like the kings you are, not the slaves you pretended to be. I will have a blacksmith remove your cuffs tonight. And you will not die with your heads on the block, but in a final, glorious fight in the arena. I think that is fair. Do you disagree?”

“You are very generous, Your Imperial Majesty,” Laurent murmured. And then, before Damen could interrupt, “We accept.”

“Excellent.” She turned to go, but lingered. Her voice was soft when she said, “I am truly sorry it had to come to this. Die well, Exalted; Your Highness.”

She left.

Laurent waited for Damen’s wrath to descend upon him; it did not take long. 

“You knew,” Damen hissed. “You knew, the whole time, in Vere, in the cell, on the ship, in the baths, at the feast –”

“In the cave?” Laurent finished. “Yes, I knew. Of course I knew, Damianos, how could I not know at once the face of the man I wanted to kill more than any other? I memorized your face at Marlas, the way you fought; I imagined the way you must have driven your sword into his body, gutted him like a pig, a creature to be conquered, not a man, not my brother –”

“Stop,” Damen said. He was ashen. “Stop, have you not toyed with me enough already?”

Laurent blinked. “Toyed with you?”

“You lie with every single breath, don’t you?” Damen said bitterly. “You pretend to let your guard down. You pretend to care about my well-being. You pretend to care about anyone except yourself. You flirt with the charm and naivety of a virgin but it is as real as your dramatic declaration of love just now.” His face twisted. “You kissed me. You would have freed me. To what end? What is your game this time, Laurent?”

“There is no game –”

“Was it to manipulate me into wanting you?” Damen asked. “So that I would protect you and you could hurt me with the truth when the time was right?” He threw up his manacled hands with a clang of metal. “Well, now’s the time! You had a chance to go home with the satisfaction of knowing Prince Damianos was dead, and you threw it away. I hope you’re happy.”

Laurent stared at him, taken aback. “I didn’t intend to…my attraction to you was never part of any game.” He looked down. “I stayed because I promised you I would. I do not break promises lightly, Damianos.”

Damen was quiet. “You’re attracted to me?”

Laurent snorted, and curled away from him. “Would I have given you my first kiss if I was not?”

“Your first…” Damen reached out, Laurent flinched at the sound of chains. He drew back. “You should have broken your promise,” he murmured. “Now we’re both going to die.”

“No,” Laurent said, glancing back, resolve filling him, “we’re not.”

Damen’s brow lowered. “You have a plan.”

“I have a plan,” Laurent agreed, though what he did not say was that it was less of a plan and more of a feeling of surety that they would not, could not, die tomorrow. “We will live.”

Damen looked at him for a long time. Then, with a sigh, he said, “Don’t make me regret trusting you.”

Laurent smiled thinly. “Now that is a promise I cannot keep.”

*

True to her word, the Empress sent a blacksmith that night to remove the golden cuffs and collars. Laurent felt oddly light without them, and knew that Damen must feel even lighter after being bound for so long. But Damen said nothing about them; in fact he said nothing at all for the rest of the night. His wound was minor but his body was weaker after so many weeks of trying to heal only to be injured again; Laurent suspected he was completely exhausted.

So Damen slipped into an early, uneasy sleep as the light from the single slot window in the cell turned to night. Laurent could not sleep, his mind whirring with the possibilities the morning would hold. Would they be killed by savage cats like Kakios? Ripped apart by bears or wolves? Killed by the best gladiator? No, no – the Empress would be sure make their deaths spectacular. No normal mauling or stabbing would be fit for kings.

Laurent puzzled over it for a long time, but came up short – all he knew was that whatever or whomever killed them would do so grandly and with no chance of survival.  
But they would survive. They had to.

His eyelids started to grow heavy as the moon rose, its silvery light glinting off of a piece of metal at Damen’s waist. Vesta’s pin.

_The moon. That would suit you._

Laurent raised his eyes to the pale crescent, biting his lip. He didn’t know how to go about this; and doubted it would do anything at all, but to be honest he would take any chance he got. He thought back to the books Damen had gotten for him, to the sections about the Pantheon, searching for a name, a soft, secretive name for the mysterious goddess of the moon –

“Selene,” Laurent whispered. Damen made a low noise, stirring.

Perhaps mental prayers were a better idea. _Selene, can you hear me? I need your help. If you are my patron goddess, please listen. I don’t want to die tomorrow; I don’t want Damianos to die tomorrow for a crime that should not be considered one. I don’t know if you can help me, but I need to save us._ He paused. _And maybe, if you happen to see Vesta, tell her she’s doing a shit job._

There was no reply. He didn’t know what he’d expected.

Laurent closed his eyes, dreading the sun.

*

The morning dawned bright and clear. 

They were taken from their cell with as many guards as before, who eyed their bare wrists and throats with some confusion and curiosity but did not comment. They went through unfamiliar tunnels and then into a place Damen must have been very familiar with – the Colosseum’s hypogeum. By noon, it was probably filled with animals and people, but now it was quiet, inhabited only by a few slaves and a blonde woman who watched them with a frown.

The guards led them to a platform, unchaining them warily. 

“May the gods curse you,” one of them said, and spat on the platform as it began to rise. Laurent prayed harder, hoping to overpower any possible cursing with his earnest supplications. 

When the platform was halfway up, Damen leaned over and muttered, “What’s the plan?”

“Working on it,” Laurent said through gritted teeth.

Damen gave him a look that said, _If we survive this, I’m going to kill you._

The trap door opened. The crowd roared with fury, not excitement, and something else roared with them. A lion?

The platform stopped. Laurent’s heart sank. No. Not a lion.

Damen swore colorfully in Akielon. 

It was a dragon. A gigantic, red, scaly, horned, winged dragon, in the flesh. And, judging by the singed stands and the scent of smoke, it breathed fire, too. 

“We are going to die,” Damen said faintly, barely audible over the screams of the crowd.

The Empress, in her box, looked very smug.

“No, we aren’t,” said Laurent. 

“Are you mad?” Damen snapped, gesturing as if Laurent could somehow miss the large, angry reptile currently glaring at them with slitted golden eyes. “How, exactly, do you plan to kill this thing? And if you suggest I strangle it with my giant brutish hands, I will strangle _you_!”

Every step of the dragon shook the arena as it paced the length of its chain, growling and shaking its wings. Fire glowed in its throat, behind rows and rows of sharp yellowed teeth.

Laurent’s mind, slowly, sharpened. And focused, on the iron chain dragging behind it and the sturdy iron grate it was attached to. “We don’t have to kill it,” he said. “We just have to free it.” 

“So it can kill us faster? Great thinking, Laurent, absolutely genius –”

“How strong _are_ you?” Laurent interrupted, narrowing his eyes critically at Damen’s biceps. “You can’t strangle a dragon, but can you rip an iron grate from a sandstone wall?”

Damen blinked, his gaze sliding to said iron grate, considering. “I think so,” he replied. He flexed his left arm, the large new scar rippling with the movement of the muscle beneath it. “Yes. But why – ?”

“We can’t fly out of here,” Laurent said, “but the dragon can.”

Damen looked at the dragon, then back at Laurent. “Oh, no,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” Laurent told him, as the dragon began to prowl towards them, honing in on its prey. “Go, Damianos. I’ll distract it.”

“You’re going to get incinerated,” Damen protested, grabbing Laurent’s wrist. Laurent looked down at his hand. Damen squeezed, not as a warning but as a plea. “That thing could kill you in a second.”

“Then don’t give it time to,” Laurent retorted, breaking free of his grasp and shoving Damen towards the iron grate. “Go!”

Reluctantly, Damen did, and the dragon’s head swung around to face Laurent as he dashed towards it, waving his hands and shouting at it. The dragon did not appear to appreciate the strings of Veretian insults, and bared its (many, many) teeth, stalking towards him with the sharp plates of its belly nearly brushing the sand. If it was not intent on killing him, Laurent would have stood back and admired it – the dragon was magnificent. The illustrations of them in old fairytales did not do them justice – only standing face to face with one could truly capture their raw, regal power. Laurent had never expected to do so; all the dragons were supposed to be dead. 

But this one was very much alive, and when it opened its jaws and bathed the arena with fire, Laurent was two steps away from being very much dead. 

To escape the inferno, he leapt towards the dragon, much to the confusion and delight of the crowd. It tried to swipe at him with deadly claws and he rolled out of the way, avoiding its snapping jaws and the sparks still falling from its sulfurous maw. Laurent could imagine the expression of utter disbelief on the Empress’s face and reveled in it as he dodged yet another deathblow, weaving between the dragon’s flailing limbs and remaining where it could not burn him without burning itself.

The dragon began to grow tired of this, and was distracted by a painful screeching sound from behind it. Laurent looked up – Damen was braced half against the wall, pulling on the iron grate with all his might, the welded chain rattling as he began to ease it free of its stone confines. Laurent could not help but marvel at Damen’s own raw, regal power for a second – his chest and face were beaded with sweat and his left arm was shaking from exertion but he was doing it; he was actually doing it. 

The dragon did not appreciate his efforts. Its massive jaws opened, and as Damen struggled to pry the last few inches of iron out, its sparks ignited. Laurent barely dove out of the way in time. Damen didn’t stand a chance. The crowd cheered and stomped as dragon fire engulfed the Crown Prince of Akielos completely.

Laurent lay on the sand, stunned, staring at the conflagration. The sand where the fire had touched was turned to glass, red-hot, hissing and cracking when the fire died out. Laurent did not what to look at what it had reduced Damen to, but he forced himself to raise his eyes, trembling…

Damen got up, dazed but completely unscathed. The iron grate was a melted puddle at his feet. His feet, which walked across the melted sand as if it was fresh summer grass. The arena fell utterly silent. Damen seemed confused. The dragon seemed confused. Laurent was half-certain he had died already because what had just happened was impossible.

Unless…his gaze fell to the pin at Damen’s waist. It was glowing.

Maybe the goddess of the hearth wasn’t doing such a shit job after all.

Damen reached him, bewildered, even more so when Laurent fell into him with a relieved laugh, touching Damen’s scarred but unburnt skin, finding it pleasantly warm to the touch. “You did it,” he whispered. “We did it.”

The dragon behind them was suddenly much less interested in the two humans invading its prison and much more interested by the realization that it could now escape that prison. It spread its wings, slow and hesitant, and the crowd started to scream in a very different way. 

“Run!” Laurent cried, grabbing Damen’s hand and sprinting with him towards the delighted dragon, the two of them clambering up its scaly side as it tested the air with a few small flaps, as if trying to relearn how to fly. He hoped it knew how to fly. Laurent scrambled forward across the broad span of its shoulders, clinging to the crest on its neck. Damen settled behind him, fumbling for a handhold on the slippery scales. 

The dragon was either too large or too excited to notice it had acquired extra weight, because the next moment it reared up on its hind legs, prompting Damen to clutch desperately at Laurent’s waist, wings beating at the air hard enough to create a small sandstorm. Spectators left their seats in a panic as the dragon gained altitude, and Laurent saw a glimpse of the Empress’s face before the dragon soared out of the arena – shocked and angry and awestruck all at once, her golden crown askew. 

And then the stands were far below them, and the dragon leapt into the sky as if it belonged in the clouds, roaring in triumph as the city and its chains blurred into the distance and the vast jungle loomed before them, untamed and unknown. When they passed the city walls, the dragon’s frantic ascent slowed, wings catching a steady updraft; and they floated with the wind, two princes and a dragon carried to freedom, the faint crescent moon smiling down upon them.


	7. Kairos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _KAIROS: the right or opportune moment; a passing instant when an opening appears which must be driven through with force if success is to be achieved._

Damen’s legs were numb and Laurent had just started to relax against him by the time the dragon realized it had passengers. They were over the immense jungle, the Silva Ciminia the soldier had warned him about weeks ago, and the dragon had begun to twist slightly under them, attempting to dislodge the unwanted cargo. 

Damen held tight to Laurent. “We need to get off this thing,” he yelled over the rushing wind. The dragon was angling into a dive, the tall treetops dangerously close.

Laurent pointed. “There’s a lake over there. How do you feel about swimming again?”

Damen groaned. “As long as we get to solid ground.”

Laurent chuckled, a little tremor against his chest. “Afraid of heights?”

“Afraid of dragons,” Damen retorted, as the dragon soared low over the trees, and then over the lake.

“On the count of three,” Laurent said. “One, two –”

The dragon rolled midair, sending the two of them plummeting off its back and down into the cold water. It snorted out some smoke rings, circled a few victory laps over them, and then flew off, a receding ruby dot in the blue sky. Laurent surfaced next to Damen, spitting a small fountain of water and brushing his drenched hair back breathlessly. He was smiling as they swam to the shallows.

Damen could not help but smile back. “Your ridiculous plan worked,” he told him.

“Yes,” Laurent agreed happily, flushed and soaked through. “We didn’t die. Told you so.”

“Actually, I think I almost died,” Damen said, Laurent’s smile dimming. “But it doesn’t make any sense…there was fire everywhere, but it missed me somehow –”

“It didn’t miss you,” Laurent replied quietly. “It consumed you. I saw it. You should have been reduced to ashes.” He reached out, fingertips brushing against the pin at Damen’s waist, and then upwards, ghosting over the curve of Damen’s hip. Damen held himself very still. “You should be ashes.” He peered at Damen through long, lowered lashes. 

Damen swallowed. “Do you wish I was?”

Laurent laughed, a short, bitten-off sound. His head tilted. “I wish…” he said. “I wish –” He stopped, seemingly unable to finish the thought, and without further warning he went up on his tiptoes and then they were kissing, an easy and oddly familiar motion made easier by the slide of the water. Damen responded instinctively for a few long, glorious seconds before coming to his senses and moving away, holding Laurent at arm’s length. He was wet and wonderful and though Damen’s heart was pounding and his conscience was screaming at him, he kept staring helplessly at Laurent’s pink, parted lips.

“This is a bad idea,” Damen told him weakly. 

Laurent licked his lips. “A worse idea than riding a dragon?”

“Potentially, yes,” he muttered. 

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “Are you _that_ terrible in bed?”

Damen spluttered. “What? No! That’s not –” He sighed. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Laurent’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Do I?”

“I killed your brother.”

Laurent’s jaw twitched. “Oh, really? I had forgotten.”

Damen let go of him, stepping backwards. “We should get to shore,” he said. “These jungles are supposed to be full of dangerous creatures. Wouldn’t want any water snakes to find their way into your chiton.”

“Wouldn’t we?” Laurent retorted, but marched out of the water nonetheless, jaw set and shoulders stiff. 

Damen followed, desperately trying not to notice how sheer said chiton had become. The sky, he thought, was very pretty today. Laurent stomped into the jungle ahead of him, pointedly ignoring Damen. Damen scowled at his back. If Laurent was going to sulk about being rejected in the hopes of guilting Damen into it, he was out of luck. 

He’d thought the kisses in the cave had been an isolated event. But Laurent apparently really did want him, which was…almost as impossible as surviving a direct blast of dragon fire. But it was a superficial want, Damen was sure of that – Laurent did not want more from him than a quick fuck or a warm body at night, at most. And Damen had had quite enough of being used. Because that was all it would be – once Laurent had gotten what he wanted, he would go back to his frigid, snarky, princely self. Or worse, something would happen to make Laurent hate him all over again.

Damen did not think he could ever forget the sight of Laurent lying under Valerius in their bed, gagged and drugged and utterly helpless. There was something surreal about it, about seeing the Ice Prince in such a position of vulnerability, and something deeply _wrong_ about it too…

When Damen had taken the gag off and picked Laurent up off the bed, there had been something in his eyes. A mixture of fear and shame overlain by glazed emptiness; not unlike the look in Erasmus’s eyes when he had shown Damen the brand on his leg, or when Govart had grabbed him. 

It was the look of someone who had been in such a situation many times before. 

Damen tried not to dwell on it. 

“We should try to make our way towards a harbor,” Damen called to him, the trees growing close and dark around them. 

Laurent nodded, glancing back. “Yes. But we’re deep inland now; to reach any shore it will take several days, at least. We should try to find a village first.”

“In the jungle? The jungle the Artesians are terrified of?” Damen shook his head. “Something tells me they didn’t build any villages around here.”

Laurent stopped in a little clearing up ahead. “I didn’t know you were such a seasoned pathfinder,” he said. “Before we do anything else, you need to rest. You’re bleeding again.”

Damen furrowed his brow. “I’m fine. We don’t need to rest; keep walking.”

Slowly, never breaking eye contact, Laurent sat down on the loamy ground and raised an eyebrow. “No.”

Damen glowered at him. “It’s barely midday; we should make the most of the daylight while we still have it –”

“We don’t even know where we are or where we’re going yet.” Laurent pointed to the ground across from him. “Rest.”

Grumbling, Damen did. “I thought I was free from your mothering.”

Laurent smiled slightly at that. “Never,” he said. His gaze was uncharacteristically soft. 

Damen looked away, clearing his throat and stretching out on the mossy ground. His arrow wound was bleeding a little, but he’d had much worse. “What will you do while I rest?”

Laurent stood up, his slim shadow falling over Damen. “Explore, I suppose. Try to form some idea of our location. If I’m not here when you wake up, assume I’ve been eaten by some jungle beast.”

Damen wrinkled his nose. “You’re too scrawny for a jungle beast.”

“I resent that,” Laurent said over his shoulder as he disappeared through the trees.

*

But Laurent was there when he woke up, sitting beside a small fire a few feet away, turning something that smelled delicious on a spit. And, to Damen’s surprise, a structure that vaguely resembled a tent had been constructed out of branches and large palm fronds in between two nearby trees. Damen sat up groggily, meeting Laurent’s cool stare with a lopsided grin. “You’ve been busy. Who’s the seasoned pathfinder now?”

Laurent gave him a long-suffering look. “Yes, well, while you were snoring away I thought I’d make myself useful.” He held up the spit. “The rabbits here are very slow, and you’re not the only one who can snap necks.”

Damen winced at his phrasing. “Ah. That’s…very thoughtful of you. I’m starving.”

Laurent snorted. “This is _my_ rabbit. Go catch one yourself, brute. Hopefully they won’t be scared off by your lumbering footsteps.”

Damen rubbed his temple. “Right. And I suppose the tent is _your_ tent, too?”

Laurent blinked, and looked down, faintly pink. “No,” he said uncomfortably. “Unless…unless you’d prefer a separate –”

Damen looked at him incredulously. “Laurent. We’ve slept in the same bed together for the past several weeks. I think I’m quite used to close proximity with you.”

Laurent turned pinker. “Are you going to find a rabbit, or not?” he snapped.

Damen rolled his eyes, but started off into the brush. “Let me know if I’m lumbering too loudly.”

*

By the time Damen had returned and eaten his two rabbits (they were even scrawnier than Laurent), the sun was setting and Laurent had gone looking for water only to return with an armful of large yellow fruits which he dumped in front of Damen in a small hill of rolling gold. 

“What’s this?” Damen asked.

Laurent sat down next to him, picking up a fruit and cracking it open on a nearby rock. His eyes were brighter than usual as he lifted it to his lips. “Try one,” he said, closing his eyes as he sipped the sweet-smelling juice from the fruit’s rind. 

“Is it poisonous?” was the first thing that came to mind.

Laurent glared at him over the rind. 

Damen relented and picked one up, cracking it and taking a wary sip.

It was… “Laurent, is this _fermented_?”

“Mhm,” said Laurent, having finished all the juice. His lips were shiny. 

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Damen teased, though at this point it was a legitimate possibility.

“I am trying to get _me_ drunk,” Laurent corrected. “Whether you join in or not is entirely your choice.”

“I see,” Damen said after another small sip, taking in the easy splay of Laurent’s limbs and the unfocused look in his eyes. He looked drugged. “How many of those have you had?”

Laurent held up three fingers, frowned, and added another. At Damen’s raised eyebrow he scowled. “I am allowed to drink if I want to,” he muttered. “I don’t usually want to.”

“Right, drunk off two glasses of wine. You have no tolerance for it,” Damen said, amused. Laurent huffed, sluggishly wiping off the juice that had dripped down his chin. “So why do you want to now?”

Laurent looked at him hazily. “’Cause of you,” he mumbled, and did not elaborate.

Damen bit his lip. “I think you should stop,” he said. He’d finished two and was feeling a little warm, but Laurent was well on his way to being badly hungover in the morning. 

But Laurent was undeterred, taking another sip before shifting closer to Damen. “You were supposed to be easy to hate,” he said. “You were supposed to be a cruel man.”

Damen eyed him warily. “I…am sorry to disappoint?”

Laurent’s lids fell halfway, heavy. “You weren’t supposed to be kind.”

“Laurent…”

“Now that we are free, do you feel like a king again?” Laurent asked Damen, abruptly.

“Do you?” Damen shot back, frowning at the crackling fire.

Laurent shrugged. “I feel better about doing this.” And he leaned forward and kissed the corner of Damen’s mouth, soft and chaste. 

Damen jerked back, wide-eyed. “Stop,” he said unevenly. “I am not your slave any longer.”

“And I am not yours,” Laurent murmured, still close. “Yet even when I was, you never took advantage.”

Damen’s breath caught. The atmosphere shifted. “I would never take advantage –”

“You could have had me,” Laurent continued, “anytime, anywhere you wanted. I would have hated you all the more, but I could not have stopped you. You know I could not have stopped you.” He paused. “Perhaps I would not have even wanted to stop you.”

Damen’s skin was awash with heat, his heart pounding. “Laurent –”

Laurent leaned back, head tilted up to the sky, humming. “Valerius said you must be a rough and selfish lover, but I don’t think that’s true. I think you would be gentle, brute.” He glanced at Damen darkly. “Prove me wrong.”

“Go to sleep, Laurent, before you say anything else you’ll regret in the morning.”

Surprisingly, Laurent got up to go to the tent – or at least he tried to, stumbling amidst the leaves and nearly falling after two steps. Damen sighed, standing up to help him, guiding him to their small shelter. Laurent’s breath was hot against his chest, and when he crumpled to the ground in the tent, he brought Damen down with him. They lay curled awkwardly face-to-face, and Laurent shifted around, sitting up after a few seconds. “I’m still thirsty,” he complained, but Damen tugged him back down firmly so that they lay as they had on the ship, though with more clothes involved.

Laurent made a squeaky sound when Damen wrapped an arm around his waist, preventing him from running off to get even drunker. Damen thought he would protest, but instead Laurent just nestled back bonelessly against his chest and touched Damen’s hand, stroking Damen’s thumb with his own.

“You are very large,” he slurred. His golden hair spilled across Damen’s brown arm. 

Damen snorted, covering Laurent’s hand, engulfing it in his palm easily. “I’m just not scrawny like you. Will you protect me from the jungle beasts?”

Laurent nodded, and closed his eyes, frowning. “You don’t really think I’m scrawny, do you?” His teeth worried at his lower lip. “I’m not. I can fight. I could fight you.”

Damen sighed, allowing his hand to drift for a moment over Laurent’s hip, brushing against the fine bones there. “I don’t want you to fight me,” he said.

Laurent was quiet, and then he shuddered, just once, a small quake that made Damen hold him just a little tighter. “I don’t want to fight you either,” Laurent admitted in a whisper.

As Laurent drifted off in his arms, Damen wondered if perhaps he had been wrong about what exactly the Prince of Vere wanted from him. 

*

When Damen awoke, his arms were empty and Laurent was sitting next to the campfire’s charred remains, eating what looked like a banana. Well, it looked like something else too.

Damen’s sleepy mind was content to watch him for a minute, gaze lingering on Laurent’s lips and the slide of his fingers as he pulled the peel back. Then Laurent felt eyes on him and looked up, gaze meeting Damen’s, eyes narrowing when he saw Damen’s expression. Not breaking his gaze, Laurent brought the fruit to his mouth again and savagely bit it in half.

Damen winced. Laurent was not subtle. Hungover Laurent was even less so.

Damen held up his hands in surrender, sitting up and crawling out of the shelter. Sleeping in a cramped space with one arm half-crushed by Laurent throughout the night was not exactly ideal, so it was a relief when he got up and stretched, standing a safe distance away from Laurent and nodding to the many discarded rinds from last night. “Having a good morning?” he asked.

Laurent tossed the banana peel away and scowled. “Just peachy,” he said.

“I tried to stop you,” Damen said with a shrug, leaning against a tree. “But you were very adamant about continuing.”

Laurent stiffened, mouth settling into a thin line. “Was I,” he said, unsteady.

His tone was odd. Damen tilted his head. “Yes. I had to physically restrain you from drinking more.”

Laurent’s hands were curled into fists. “Did…anything else happen. Besides the…drinking.”

Damen blinked. “Ah…you…may or may not have kissed me.”

Laurent blanched. “What else.”

Damen frowned at him and his accusatory tone. “Nothing else happened.”

Laurent’s voice dripped venom. “I woke up with amnesia, a hangover, and you wrapped around me like a python and you expect me to believe _nothing happened?_ ”

“Yes,” Damen retorted, defensive. “What, you think I ravished you in your sleep? If I’d bedded you, you’d know it.”

Laurent sneered. “Yes. Your style of grabbing your partner and kicking their legs open does stand out in the memory.”

Damen glowered. “And here I thought you couldn’t possibly get any more unpleasant.”

Laurent stood up and sniffed, brushing the chiton off daintily. “Lucky for you, you will be rid of me as soon as we reach a port.”

Right, then. Their brief interlude of post-escape civility was over. Damen tried to tell himself it was for the best – it would make it easier to part ways, when the time came.

“Good to hear,” Damen said. “Any thoughts as to where that port might be?”

Laurent glanced at the sky. “Yes. We were flying east from the city, and ended up closer to the far eastern edge of the island. So let’s go east.”

“That’s your plan? Go east?” Damen repeated. “Through a dangerous jungle with no supplies and no idea if we’ll actually find a port on the other side?”

Laurent’s jaw clenched. “I feel as though my head is going to explode at any moment,” he snapped. “Do not test me, Damianos.” He shot a last glare over his shoulder. “We go east.”

Damen sighed, shaking his head and giving up – he could think of no other plan, after all. “Fine. Lead the way, pathfinder.” 

*

They walked for hours in relative silence, interspersed mostly by bitchy remarks and irritable grumbling in their respective languages. A few times, Damen tried to ask if Laurent was feeling better, and only earned one icy glare after another for his efforts. He realized, after the third time, that maybe Laurent thought he was mocking him, and tried again with more sincerity.

“Does your head still hurt?” he attempted. Laurent ignored him. “You should try to drink lots of water when we come across some; that usually helps. And you could take a nap if –”

“I am not a sick child,” Laurent hissed, twigs cracking sharply underfoot as he quickened his pace to get away from Damen. “You can stop treating me like one.”

Damen fell silent, more than a little hurt. It wasn’t _his_ fault Laurent was in this state, after all. 

Laurent slowed, shoulders slumping. “I realize,” he muttered, “you are just trying to help. As always.”

Damen huffed. “But let me guess – you don’t need my help?”

Laurent glanced back at him, a line between his brows. “I think you have proven time and time again that that is not, unfortunately, true.” He frowned. “I owe you debts I do not know how to repay.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Damen replied automatically, knowing he was referring to Valerius.

“You say that, but,” Laurent started, and then froze. “Did…did you hear that?”

Damen looked around, listening closely, but heard nothing. “No…? What –”

“We should keep moving,” Laurent said under his breath. “I thought…it sounded like a voice.”

“What kind of voice?” Damen asked, bewildered, but Laurent just hurried onward.

About an hour later, the jungle started to change. 

It had been vibrantly green and unmistakably full of life so far – colorful parrots flitted above them with raucous calls while a variety of strange insects buzzed past, tiny spotted frogs peered at them from the mouths of water-filled flowers, large lizards leapt from treetop to treetop. But it began to grow steadily quieter, which was nice at first and then quickly became unsettling. The trees changed, too – they were larger and older, draped with thick moss and strangler vines, the undergrowth layered with dead leaves and plants smothered by the lack of light as the canopies above grew thicker until the sun was blocked out entirely.

Damen didn’t like it. He fell into step beside Laurent, keeping his voice low. “Are you certain we’re still headed east?”

“As certain as one can be when the sun is gone,” Laurent replied, equally uneasy.

They passed a tree with a large section gouged out of its trunk, as if by teeth or claws. The hair rose on the back of Damen’s neck. “Something’s wrong here,” he warned.

“Something,” Laurent agreed, coming to an abrupt halt, “is very, very wrong here.”

The forest floor ahead of them was littered with skeletons. Hundreds of skeletons, bleached white and grinning in various states of destruction and decay, some skulls smashed in and others entirely untouched. They were all human.

“We need to leave,” Damen said. The forest rustled with a sudden breeze, dry and cold.

“No,” Laurent whispered. “It’s already here.” And he grabbed Damen’s hand, dashing with him into the field of death without further explanation, yanking him around a tree and down towards the earth, into a hollow formed by the soil and the tree’s large roots. The space was even smaller than their shelter had been, and Laurent was pressed close along Damen’s front, both of them surrounded by loamy dirt and the scent of rotting wood. 

Damen was about to demand an explanation when he heard the voice.

_I know you’re here. I’m going to find you. I’m going to tear you apart._

He stared in horror at Laurent, who wore a similarly disturbed expression. The voice was distinctly not human. It was as if a creature with a mouth not meant to speak was attempting to do so. The words came out warped and rasping, neither Akielon nor Veretian nor Artesian but a malign patchwork of all three, and if Damen thought Laurent could sound spiteful…this thing, whatever it was, wanted nothing more than to slaughter them both.

And Laurent, in a burst of quick thinking, had saved them from that immediate fate.

The creature did not sound happy about that. _Don’t try to hide. The ones who hide the longest take the longest to die._ A pause, and then a sound like a sword on stone, grating and painful. _Oh…there’s two of you._ The sound came again, and Damen realized it was laughter, or at least some sick version of it. _I will make one of you watch as I strip the flesh from the other’s bones, piece by piece._

Laurent’s nails were digging into Damen’s arms, and Damen could feel his heart pounding against his own, twin rhythms of terror. 

_He doesn’t like that idea._ Then the voice changed, and when it spoke again Laurent stilled, his heartbeat stuttering.

 _He doesn’t want to watch you die,_ the creature said in the voice of the Regent. 

Damen wrapped an arm around Laurent’s waist without quite knowing why, as if he could somehow shield him from the vicious words spoken in saccharine Veretian. But he could not, and the words continued with increasing ferocity. 

_He doesn’t want to watch you die like he watched Auguste die. He doesn’t know what he would do without you. He doesn’t want to be alone again. Laurent was always so alone after Auguste died._ Laughter. _After you killed him! It’s your fault, Damianos. It’s your fault that he was so alone._

Damen swallowed hard. Laurent was shaking, eyes squeezed shut. 

_But he wasn’t quite alone, was he?_

Laurent bit his lip so hard it bled, a trickle of scarlet down his chin. 

The Regent’s voice chuckled. _You don’t want me to know the rest? Tsk, tsk. The little prince is good at keeping his thoughts locked away. The true prince, though…his mind is an open book._

And again, the voice changed, to Kastor’s.

 _You’re such a fool, Damianos,_ he growled. _You actually thought I loved you? You actually thought we were brothers? You are nothing more than a nuisance standing in my way. I should have slit your throat like I did to Lykaios._

Damen had to fight to keep his breathing even, his head level. If he made a single sound, the creature might find them. That’s why it was goading them on, trying to provoke a reaction. Laurent’s face was tucked against his throat, his lips trembling, and Damen focused on that; on the soft spill of his hair against Damen’s collarbones, on the tight curve of his tense body flush against Damen’s, on the small, fragile bones of his spine under Damen’s fingertips.

Kastor’s voice rose in volume. _But Jokaste convinced me to send you to the little prince. He was supposed to finish the job for me._ The voice turned gleeful. _And then he started to like you. He started to care for you._

Laurent’s breath hitched.

 _He started to forgive you for what you did. He thinks you might care for him, too._ Kastor’s voice curled with contempt. _But you don’t really, do you? How could you like such a vile Veretian serpent? You don’t like him. You just like his coloring – gold and white, just like Lykaios. Just like Jokaste._

There was a beat of silence.

 _Gold and white, hm? Nothing so bright can hide from me._ And a sound like someone – or something – running over dead leaves and bones rushed through the air, coming closer to their hiding place. Damen moved by instinct, rolling Laurent off and under him, shielding his bright hair and skin from the creature’s searching eyes under the bulk of his brown body. Laurent was staring up at him, dazed and frightened, telltale hair fanned out in a halo around his head where it lay on the damp earth. 

Damen hunched his shoulders to stay low, their chests nearly touching, braced over Laurent protectively. Laurent’s breath whistled past his cheek, and he glanced down, their faces inches apart. Damen was struck by the urge to touch him, to somehow assure him without words that Damen was going to keep him safe. He reached out, thumb falling lightly upon Laurent’s lower lip, carefully wiping the blood away. Laurent’s pupils dilated, lips parting.

_I can smell you. I can smell your fear. I can smell your blood._

Laurent’s brow lowered. Then his hand shot up to Damen’s side, bringing a handful of muddy earth with it, smoothing it along Damen’s ribs, nodding when Damen grabbed another handful of the dirt around them, applying it to the length of Laurent’s arm. Then his palm moved up, resting on Laurent’s neck, smearing the mud across his throat, and though Damen tried to be careful and keep his touch light, Laurent’s eyes went wide. Damen withdrew his hand quickly, but Laurent shook his head and grabbed his wrist, guiding it back to his face, fingertips painting dark streaks over his cheeks and brow as Laurent did the same to him.

The mud was masking their scent. It was exactly the kind of bizarre, clever thing Damen had come to expect from Laurent. And it _worked_. The voice, closer than ever before, had lapsed back into its original inhuman sound, crackling with frustration. 

_Where did you go? You can’t hide forever. You have to come out sooner or later, and when you do I’ll make it worth your while._

Damen knew the creature was right, but he was not going to give in. Not as long as Laurent lay beneath him, hair turned brown by the mud and chest rising and falling shallowly, one hand clasping Damen’s like a lifeline. 

_The day is ending, little princes. Will you wait ‘til nightfall, so I can slice you open under the moonlight?_

Laurent’s brows rose, eyes bright in sudden epiphany. Damen looked at him quizzically, but Laurent just closed his eyes, lips moving just barely as if in prayer. His nose scrunched up in concentration, lips continuing to move as the creature prowled around, rustling and growling. Damen wondered if Laurent was alright, and nudged him worriedly.

Laurent’s eyes blinked open, mouth curving up in a half-smile. “Selene,” he whispered.

Damen blinked back. So he _was_ praying – praying for Selene to help them now as Vesta had helped them in the arena against the dragon. The light, coming in through the narrow gaps of the roots, was the burnt orange of sunset. They had about an hour ‘til the moon rose, then. An hour of hiding and waiting and listening to the creature’s taunts.

But when Laurent looked at him resolutely, squeezing his hand, Damen thought maybe he could wait a little longer. 

*

When the sun set and they were plunged into darkness, the creature’s voice was somehow magnified. Damen managed to block most of it out, finding that when he only thought of happy things, the creature had less to talk about. Under him, Laurent’s eyes were half-closed and hazy, like when he had been drugged, but occasionally they would flit up to meet Damen’s, sharp and alert as ever. 

Damen had expected Laurent to shove him off now that they were covered in mud and his brightness was hidden, but Laurent seemed surprisingly content to stay as they were, only elbowing Damen once, when he almost kneed Laurent in the groin. Damen was careful not to crush him, his arms aching from the effort of holding himself up for so long, but he would take muscle strain over accidentally killing Laurent any day.

The darkness was eased by the moon as it rose, a faint silver luminescence that made the creature let out an agonized howl somewhere in the distance. They waited with baited breath as the creature continued to scream. _It burns, it burns!_ It wailed, a long, drawn-out sound that made them both shudder, and then it crashed away through the undergrowth, the smell of burning flesh following it. 

Apparently Selene had answered Laurent’s prayers, in her own twisted way.

Damen waited a few minutes before scrambling to his feet, pulling Laurent up with him and peering over a root into the forest. The skulls grinned back at him, and the ground around the tree was torn up by claws and footprints, but the creature was nowhere to be seen or heard. The moon, visible through a gap in the canopy, shone serenely down on them. Laurent followed him out of their hollow, brushing his filthy hair back from his equally filthy face, and took a deep breath of fresh air.

“I was starting to think I’d be forced to inhale the smell of sweaty Akielon forever,” Laurent said wryly, brushing off the muddy chiton. 

Damen sighed, ignoring the jibe. “Let’s get away while we still can. Who knows how long your Selene will be able to fend him off?”

Laurent looked at him, the smirk falling off his face, replaced by something much more honest and vulnerable. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Lead the way,” he muttered.

Damen did.

*

A few minutes after they passed the last few skulls, they stumbled across the remains of what appeared to be some unfortunate merchant’s caravan, the skeleton of the horse still yoked to the wagon. Inside the splintered wagon they found chests full of garments and supplies – empty canteens, dried nuts and berries, jerky, a compass, and actual clothes which Laurent gathered up gratefully. Damen silently mourned the end of Laurent’s chiton days.

They walked until about midnight, until Laurent was swaying from exhaustion and Damen forced him to stop after he remembered Laurent had been hungover and needed sleep. The moon, high in the sky, watched over them as they finally found a spot of solace next to a large, clear blue pool formed by a series of small waterfalls, creating a secluded oasis that was far more enticing than the creature’s grisly graveyard. 

Laurent was in no shape to make a shelter this time, so Damen went about building a fire and piling some leaves up in a vague cot shape while Laurent went to the pool to clean the mud off his skin and the chiton. Damen managed to keep his gaze away, the cruel words of the creature still echoing in his mind as he drank from one of the canteens and listlessly chewed a strip of jerky. 

For all he knew, it had been lying about everything. But…what if Laurent really did care for him? What if Laurent really was starting to forgive him for Auguste? Was such a thing even possible, after everything they’d been through?

Then again, maybe such a thing was possible precisely because of everything they’d been through.

When Laurent returned, he was once more laced up in breeches and a black shirt that was a bit too big for him, giving him a strange air halfway between untouchable and unsure. His hair was damp, tucked back behind his ears, and his clean skin seemed to glow in the darkness. Damen was instantly aware of how grimy he still was, and angled his body away from Laurent’s as if to avoid somehow tainting him. 

The cut on Laurent’s lip was a thin dark line that widened when he yawned, a rare, unguarded gesture. Damen offered him the canteen as he passed and he drank deeply, handing it back with a small sound of gratitude. Damen turned back to the fire. Out of the corner of his eye, Damen saw him toss some other shirts they’d found over the pile of leaves before deeming it adequate and laying down on the nest of clothing with another large yawn. 

Laurent’s sleepy voice startled him. “You may join me whenever you decide to retire.”

Damen glanced over, confused and certain he must have misheard; but Laurent was already asleep, a small, graceful heap of white skin and dark cloth. Damen’s chest ached just from looking at him. Laurent had been wasted as a pet – he would be wasted as anything less than a king. 

So many looked at him and saw only his devastating beauty, but beyond that lovely face and those glittering eyes there was a mind not to be trifled with; a mind Damen had come to admire instead of despise. And beyond _that_ , beyond his calculating machinations and cleverness, was a heart. A heart Damen had once doubted Laurent possessed, but knew now that everything Laurent had done was because of it. Laurent had sought revenge and hated Damen because he loved Auguste deeply with that heart. And with every soft glance and thoughtful word, Damen saw another glimpse of it, another glimpse of the person Laurent might have been before the battle at Marlas, before everything changed and he was forced to grow up far too fast. 

Damen stood up, dried mud caking his clammy skin, and went to the pool to wash and clear his tangled thoughts. 

*

He dressed in a loose tunic and clean breeches, which felt strange after going bare-chested for so long. The jungle was humid but the breeze that swept past was cool and refreshing like the pool of water, and after extinguishing the fire a slight chill set into the glen. Damen still hesitated, standing above where Laurent lay curled in slumber. It was not a very large cot, hardly large enough to share. 

But…Laurent _had_ given him permission, so after a few more seconds of floundering, Damen relented and laid down beside him, freezing when his knees knocked into Laurent’s. To Damen’s relief, Laurent did not awake, just made a drowsy snuffling sound. Damen took one of the spare shirts and draped it over them as the breeze picked up, eliciting another sleepy noise.

Damen had slept on silk sheets his whole life, but somehow this was more comfortable. Warm and weary, he shuffled as close to Laurent as he dared, and waited for sleep to find him.

*

When he awoke, it was still dark, and Laurent was huddled up against his chest. Damen was about to put some space between them when he realized Laurent was the one who had woken him, eyes shining in the darkness, inches away.

“Are you alright?” Damen mumbled.

Laurent’s lashes fluttered. “Mm,” he answered, which was not really an answer at all. Then, “Who was Lykaios?”

Damen frowned, nonplussed. “She was my favorite bed slave,” he said. “She was with me when Kastor’s men stormed my chambers.”

“They slit her throat?” Laurent asked.

Damen nodded tightly. “She should not have died,” he murmured. “Her only crime was loyalty.”

Laurent blinked, soft and slow. “And I suppose you will find a new Lykaios once you retake your throne?”

“No,” Damen said. “I will never take another slave to my bed.”

Surprise flickered in Laurent’s eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was very, very low. “I am not a slave,” he said.

Damen forgot how to breathe.

“Did Lykaios look like me?” Laurent asked. “Does Jokaste look like me?”

“I –”

“Do I remind you of her?”

Damen stared at him. Laurent stared back expectantly. “Yes,” he said, choked, “and no.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow.

“Jokaste betrayed me. I do not think you would. I think you are truer than she ever was.” Damen exhaled unsteadily. “Are you?”

Laurent’s lips parted. “I am a man of my word when it suits me, Damianos.”

“Does it suit you now, with me?”

“I’m going to kiss you,” Laurent said, and true to his word, he did.

Damen recoiled, wide-awake at once. Laurent stared at him, brow furrowing, still so, so close. His lips were shiny, catching the moonlight like his eyes. He looked like a silvery phantom, a fragment of dreams become reality. It was surreal, and Damen wondered if he was not still asleep. He must be.

“You don’t want this,” Damen whispered harshly.

“Do not presume,” Laurent whispered back, “to know what I do or do not want.”

Damen’s heart felt like it was going to beat out of its chest.

Laurent paused, suddenly unsure. “Do _you_ want this?” At Damen’s shocked silence, he flushed, ducking his head, moving back. “Oh,” he said, voice cracking a little. He started to roll away.

Damen caught his shoulder, Laurent stilled. “I want this,” Damen told him. Laurent let out a small breath. “I want…I want you. But not because of your coloring. Not because you remind me of any past lover.”

“Then why?” Laurent asked, a line between his brows.

“Why do you want me?” Damen countered. 

Laurent’s mouth twisted wryly. “A question I ask myself often,” he started, and Damen could not help himself, he rolled his eyes and leaned in and kissed Laurent the way he’d wanted to for what felt like eons. Laurent’s surprise was endearing, as was the small noise he made against their lips, muffled and buzzing between them. And then his hands lifted, reaching up to grasp at the fabric of Damen’s shirt, tugging him insistently closer, their legs jostling and the makeshift blanket starting to slip off of their twisting bodies. Damen pressed his tongue past Laurent’s lips, and Laurent pressed inelegantly but eagerly back. Damen tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and Laurent was nothing if not a quick study, kissing back with everything Damen gave him.

Damen was barely aware of their positions until Laurent started to squirm under him, their noses bumping as Laurent struggled to sit up, half-pulling Damen with him. Damen went easily, his kisses sliding from Laurent’s mouth to his fine jaw, the smooth column of his throat, soft as white satin under Damen’s lips. Laurent clung to him, tilting his head back, exposing more of his neck for Damen’s perusal. 

Sitting up, their difference in size was more pronounced, and Damen had to hunch down to continue kissing him, his hands feeling rough and too-large where they cupped Laurent’s hips. Laurent’s own hands, one curled around Damen’s neck and the other working at the ties on his shirt, were delicate in comparison, though Damen knew it was a mere illusion of weakness, especially when Laurent got his shirt free and shoved it off impatiently, the fabric falling to join all the other shirts.

Laurent looked at him with dark, narrowed eyes, palms smoothing over the bare planes of Damen’s chest slowly. Damen sat back and let him look, breath catching when Laurent leaned in and kissed the pink scar on his shoulder, then down to the older scar, the last mark Auguste had left in the world. He hesitated, then looked up at Damen, hair falling into his face and hands still braced on Damen’s chest. “What exactly is it that you want, Damianos?”

Damen swallowed, hand drifting down, carding through Laurent’s hair and relishing the soft sound he made. “I want…I want whatever you want,” he murmured. 

Laurent seemed unsure what to do with that answer. “And if I do not know exactly what I want?” he retorted. 

Damen smiled, reassuring, hearing the edge to his cool voice. “I could be persuaded to come up with a few ideas,” he admitted, fingers starting on the laces of Laurent’s shirt. It was nothing compared to the complexity of his old Veretian garments, and it was not long before they were both bare-chested. In the moonlight Laurent was given the appearance of a marble statue, one of the elegant busts lining the halls of Ios, cold and regal. But when Damen touched him, he was warm and arched into it, his composure lost in flushed cheeks and shallow breath. 

“I am doubtful,” Laurent hissed, “that these ideas of yours involve anything other than teasing.”

Chuckling, Damen indulged in a few more kisses and caresses before urging him down again, onto his back on the makeshift pallet. Laurent resisted the last few inches, propping himself up on his elbows and watching Damen warily as he nudged Laurent’s knees apart, unlacing his breeches and easing them down. Laurent continued to gaze at him suspiciously until Damen’s mouth found his hip, nuzzling at the waistband of his undergarments. It was not subtle at all.

Laurent’s whole body tensed. “I hope you do not want exactly what I want,” he said, strained, “because I am not going to do that to you.”

Damen shrugged, unconcerned, mouthing at the shape of him through the fabric. “Okay,” he said, enjoying the feeling of Laurent’s cock stirring under his hot breath.

“Okay?” Laurent echoed. “Let me make myself clearer – if you are expecting reciprocity, you will be sorely disappointed – _oh._ ”

Grinning as he tugged down Laurent’s undergarments, the hardness of his cock inches from Damen’s lips, he raised his eyes to look at Laurent again. “Trust me, I won’t be disappointed by this,” he murmured, and then swallowed him down without further preamble. 

Laurent’s reaction was better than Damen could have ever anticipated; the sound that fell from his lips one of shocked, uninhibited pleasure. It was the first and only loud sound Laurent made – as Damen slid his tongue down the length of him, Laurent’s body tensed again, breath coming in short, sharp pants and hips hitching minutely against Damen’s firm palms. Damen pulled off slightly, licking only at the sensitive head, tasting a sharp spill of salt against his tongue. Laurent’s head was thrown back, hands forming fists in the shirts, white-knuckled. Damen slid back down again, slower.

Damen hummed around the cock in his mouth. Laurent jerked, a thin whine escaping him. He gritted his teeth, apparently determined to be as quiet as possible. Damen wished he wouldn’t, but was in no mood to argue, so he just took Laurent deeper, until his lips nearly touched Laurent’s base, his jaw aching in a very satisfying way. Damen stayed like that for as long as he could, fully engulfing Laurent in the wet heat of his mouth and watching him struggle to control his reactions all the while. When he pulled off for air, Laurent’s cock slipping free with an obscene _pop_ , Damen stroked his thigh in an attempt to calm him. Laurent made a low, pained noise.

“I cannot,” Laurent started, and sighed with frustration evident. “I cannot finish this way.”

“Well,” Damen retorted, “not with that attitude.” His hand curled around Laurent’s cock as if to prove his point, his other hand slipping into his own pants, where his own arousal lay heavy and half-forgotten.

Laurent peered down at him, cheeks red. “You…you enjoy doing this?”

“Sucking you off?” Damen clarified. Laurent’s blush darkened. “Absolutely.”

Laurent chewed his lower lip, considering. “It…may take a while,” he warned. 

Damen nosed at his cut lines, at the junction of hip and thigh where Laurent had begun to sweat. “Good,” he mumbled, bringing his mouth back to Laurent’s cock. He paused just before his lips touched it. “You can tell me if you ever want me to stop, you know.”

“Of course I know that,” Laurent muttered, but his gaze softened and he lay back completely, tipping his head up to the stars. And when Damen reapplied his mouth, Laurent’s eyes closed, and it did not, in fact, take long at all before he gasped, “Stop, stop,” and Damen moved back quickly, letting Laurent shudder and breathe, his fists loosening. 

Damen wanted to touch him, to comfort him, but did not know if that was within what was permitted, and so he sat back on his heels and waited. 

Laurent sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, and it was so terribly raw and genuine and utterly unnecessary.

“Don’t be,” Damen told him. “It’s not your fault.”

The cut on Laurent’s lip reopened, teeth digging hard into it, and Damen thought Laurent might ask him to stop completely. 

But a few seconds later he said, “Go ahead,” in a quiet voice, and Damen did, but this time he went about it slower, applying both hand and mouth, hollowing his cheeks and suckling at where Laurent was leaking, taking him tenderly rather than deeply, petting absently at his thighs and hips and trailing kisses whenever he had to take a breath. Laurent trembled, but not with tension; he was close. Damen stroked his side, feeling the contracting muscles of his abdomen, the hard curve of his ribs, the frantic patter of his heart.

When Laurent came, it was almost a surprise to both of them, a sudden flood of heat on Damen’s tongue that made him moan, Laurent answering with a sound like a choked sob. Damen swallowed and cleaned him with his tongue until Laurent’s hand found his jaw, pushing him away gently and sitting up with a dazed expression. Damen expected him to need some recovery time, but in mere seconds he had a lapful of Laurent, slender hands fumbling at his breeches and yanking them open, curling around his cock and squeezing almost savagely. 

Damen moaned, head tipping forward against Laurent’s shoulder. Laurent’s voice, close to his ear, was a low, smooth constant, almost a purr. “I see you are everywhere in proportion,” he murmured, thumb sliding over the head of Damen’s cock, pressing in just enough to make his hips buck. “You’re so hard, just from sucking me off,” he mused. “I wonder what you would do if I stopped.” His voice grew husky with want. “What would you do if I left you aching? If I made you wait?”

Damen’s cock jerked. “I would wait,” he groaned, as Laurent’s hand twisted, fingers slipping on the slickness of his length. “But I would get back at you for it later.”

“Would you?” Laurent’s thumb and forefinger closed in a tight circle around his base, a jolt of pressure that was almost too much, yet not enough. “How?”

Damen’s head was a fuzzy mess. This was not fair. But he managed to say, “I would kiss you.”

Laurent’s laughter was musical, lilting. His fingers circled tighter. Damen’s spine bowed. “That doesn’t sound like getting back at me,” he said.

Damen raised his head, looking into Laurent’s impossibly blue eyes. “I would kiss you until you came,” he said. “I wouldn’t touch your cock. I wouldn’t do anything except kiss you for however long it took for you to let go.”

Laurent’s lashes fluttered, gaze glassy. “That would take…a very long time.” His grip loosened, Damen’s hips rolled against his palm. 

“Would it?” Damen replied, tilting his head closer. “I don’t think so. I think you like tenderness. I think you like it slow.”

Laurent’s breath was hot on his lips, stuttering. “I think you should shut up,” he said, and pulled Damen in for a kiss, hand curved around the back of Damen’s neck, greedy and gentle at the same time, just like his kiss. It was no assertion of dominance, but rather an exploration of sensation, as Laurent tried to kiss him with the same amount of skill his hand on Damen’s cock possessed. 

Damen cupped his jaw, kissing back with enthusiasm, giddy with the idea that he was the first, the _only_ person Laurent had kissed. Damen had never thought of sex as an impersonal, detached act, but he supposed it could be made into one – whereas kissing was irrevocably intimate. A kiss was not a kiss without shared breath, closed eyes, a mutual surrender of mouths; voices, lips, tongues. Laurent seemed to understand this, and to like it immensely. 

“I do,” Laurent whispered when their mouths separated, his hand moving faster on Damen’s cock. “I do like it slow.” Damen smiled helplessly, his arm wrapped around Laurent’s waist, Laurent’s thighs bracketing his. Laurent’s other hand, still cupping Damen’s nape, was soft and warm and steady just like his palm as Damen spilled into it, moaning some semblance of Laurent’s name. Laurent kissed him through it, not appearing to mind the slackness of Damen’s mouth at all. 

Laurent pulled back; Damen fell back, landing with a thud on the cot, leaves crackling as he shifted and stretched luxuriously, kicking his breeches off the rest of the way. He’d made a mess on his stomach and couldn’t find it in himself to care, gazing blissfully up at the stars, which twinkled back at him like a million diamonds, a shattered crown on an epic scale.

Then there was a soft touch on his abdomen, the swipe of a cloth, and when Damen glanced down Laurent was there, wiping him clean. Damen’s jaw might have dropped. Seeing Laurent do such a thing was…surprising, to say in the least. Laurent saw him staring and scowled, tossing the dirty cloth away and folding his arms. “What, brute?”

“Sometimes I think I have you figured out,” Damen said. “Then you go and throw me for a loop all over again.”

Laurent’s scowl faded, replaced by an uncertain little frown. “Is it so strange to take care of a bed partner’s mess? Clearly you are unused to the idea of hygiene.”

“Clearly not, as I took care of your mess easily,” Damen countered, mouth quirking. Laurent turned pink. It was a color Damen was quickly becoming used to seeing on him, and one he would never tire of. “C’mere,” he murmured, more imploring than commanding. Laurent shuffled forward, diffident, and Damen drew on his hand, tugging him down into their sad excuse for a bed. Laurent, tired and sated, did not resist, pulling a few of the remaining clean shirts over them. Damen noticed Laurent had replaced his pants, the fabric rough against Damen’s own nakedness, but found satisfaction in the fact that Laurent’s chest was still bare.

“If you wake me up before dawn,” Laurent mumbled, “I will kill you.”

Damen nestled against him happily. “Goodnight,” he said. 

*

Unsurprisingly, Laurent still awoke before Damen, though the cot was warm in his absence and the sun was already high in the sky. Damen tried to feel guilty about losing so much time and failed miserably. It was hard to feel guilty about anything when reflecting on the feeling of Laurent’s lips against his own. He sat up, looking around – the fire’s ashes were still cold, their small pile of supplies was still there, and when Damen squinted he could see Laurent through the trees, near the pool and the waterfall, golden hair shining in the sunlight. He was crouched in a patch of berry bushes, so Damen could only see Laurent’s head, turned away from him. 

Damen rose and put on his pants quietly, amused by the idea of sneaking up on unruffled Laurent. He picked his way silently through the campsite and down to the oasis, Laurent’s back still facing to him. He neared the bushes, angling his body so his shadow would not be visible, about to lunge for Laurent when he stood up.

Laurent was wearing the chiton. Damen was hard so fast he was dizzy.

Perhaps he made a sound, because Laurent turned quickly, hand raised, pausing when he saw it was only Damen. “Good morning,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “I found breakfast.” He held up a handful of dark berries. 

_Laurent was wearing the chiton._ “Laurent,” Damen said. 

Laurent was fighting not to smile. “Damen,” he parroted innocently.

“You…”

Laurent sauntered up to him, the berries forgotten on the ground in his wake. “I have been thinking,” he said, “about what, exactly, I want.” He stopped a handbreadth from Damen, chin tilted up imperiously. 

“And what,” Damen gritted out, “have you concluded?”

Laurent reached up, fingertip tracing the curve of Damen’s jaw. “I want you to fuck me,” he said. “Right now.”

Damen had to count to ten mentally to stop himself from doing so. “Here?” he said. “Now?” Damen could not believe he was saying this. “I don’t think so.”

Laurent’s eyes flashed. “And why not here, now? Are you suddenly incapable of fucking? Has the mighty, lustful Akielon been rendered impotent? Oh, the shame.”

“That’s not…” Damen sighed, shaking his head. “We’re in the middle of the jungle, Laurent. There aren’t exactly bottles of oil lying around everywhere.”

Laurent folded his arms. “We don’t need oil,” he protested. “You could just –”

Damen stopped him right there. “We need oil.” His voice softened. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I –” Laurent swallowed, glancing down as if remembering the size of Damen’s cock in his hands, and scowled. “Fine. Fine, you’ve made yourself clear. If you don’t want to fuck me, just say it.”

Damen blinked. “What? Laurent, I want to. I want to…” He stepped closer. “I want to make you feel good. To give you pleasure. Fucking isn’t the only way to do that.”

Laurent flushed. “I am not a virgin,” he snapped. “I am well aware of how to make someone come. But I’ve already used my hand on you and you’ve used your mouth on me and if you think I’m going to suck your cock too, you’d best start rethinking – ah!”

Damen lifted Laurent up effortlessly, the chiton hiking up around his hips and exposing his thighs in all their snow-white glory. Laurent yelped, and when Damen waded with him into the cold water of the pool he started to squirm, though his hands clung tightly to Damen’s shoulders. “Brute, what are you doing?!” he gasped, the ends of his hair dragging in the water, dampening and darkening the gold strands. “Let me _go_ –”

But Damen just grinned down at him and waded over to the cool shelf of rock under the waterfall, soaking both of them in the process. Laurent spluttered, staring at Damen from bewildered blue eyes as he was set down gently on the rock ledge, which was mostly dry, a few inches above the rest of the pool. Behind them, the waterfall roared in a low tumble of white noise. 

Laurent, sitting on the rock, blinked up at him as Damen stepped slowly into the open V of his legs. Laurent’s lashes were star shaped from the water, and the chiton was made almost entirely transparent, plastered to his body. Damen could see the shape of him stirring under the thin fabric, so he expected it when Laurent asked, “Change your mind?” and spread his legs a little further. Still, Damen could see the apprehension in his eyes; hear the tremor in his voice; feel the overwhelming tension in his body when Damen touched his hip lightly. 

So maybe Damen had other reasons for not fucking him yet. Damen could not easily forget the memory of Laurent in the cells at Arles, struggling to fight the pleasure drug’s effects with an iron will that broke only because of the impossibly high dosage. Neither could Damen forget how apathetic Laurent had been while instructing Ancel on how to suck him off; how detached and disinterested he had seemed in the face of Vere’s more carnal entertainments. 

But he had certainly been receptive last night, hesitant and a little clumsy but unmistakably eager. He had initiated it, after all.

Damen was beginning to realize that it was not simply that Laurent did not like sex; it was more like he didn’t _want_ to like it.

Yet he said he was not a virgin, and Damen believed him.

The more Damen thought about this, the more it troubled him. Laurent clearly had some kind of mental blockade he was struggling to overcome, probably based on his previous sexual experience, and Damen had some ideas about how to help him overcome it. Some very good ideas.

Laurent was babbling; Damen didn’t even know if he realized it. “I suppose we could use the water instead of oil, there’s obviously enough of it, but don’t flatter yourself, you don’t need an entire pool –”

“Hush,” Damen said, fondly, leaning over him. Laurent shrank back against the stone, breath catching. “I’m not doing that.”

“Then what, exactly, are you doing?” Laurent asked in a small voice.

Damen looked at him seriously. “Nothing that could hurt you,” he promised. “And if you want me to stop, just tell me and –”

“Damen.” Laurent was looking at him strangely, and then after a long moment he nodded and lay back on the stone, watching him with raised brows. “Get on with it.”

Damen smiled and urged Laurent back up, cupping his jaw and leaning in to kiss him. Laurent leaned into it, his grip on Damen’s shoulders tight, then loosening, gradually, his arms looping securely around Damen’s neck as the kiss deepened. Laurent made a tiny sound, and Damen’s lips parted, their tongues slipping together smoothly, and it seemed impossible that the same mouth that had delivered so many cruel words could be so soft now. 

With Laurent sufficiently distracted by the kiss, Damen began to slide the chiton up further, and when Damen’s hand closed in a loose fist around Laurent’s cock his whole body froze up, the rhythm of the kiss stuttering as Laurent pulled away, his head dropping forward to hide his face against Damen’s collarbones. Damen let him, twisting his hand leisurely, Laurent’s cock hot velvet against his palm. He was only half-hard, but when Damen kissed Laurent’s neck he jumped eagerly in Damen’s grip. 

Encouraged, Damen let go of his cock and refocused all of his attention on lavishing Laurent’s neck and throat with soft, sucking kisses. Laurent’s body tensed and relaxed in equal measure, his internal conflict evidently not yet resolved. But Damen could be very patient when he needed to be. He let his teeth dig in, just a little, and Laurent groaned, the first loud noise he had made so far as a bruise darkened on his throat. Damen nuzzled at the mark, pleased. 

Laurent’s hips twitched forward. “I said _get on with it_ , not ‘be an insufferable tease,’” Laurent gasped breathlessly. 

Damen hummed in reply, mouthing over the lines of his chest, half on top of him as slid the chiton off the rest of the way and took one of Laurent’s nipples into his mouth, the pink bud tight and peaked under his tongue. Laurent squirmed in little jerky movements, legs splaying as Damen moved on to the other one, sucking and licking at it until Laurent batted him away, over-sensitized and, when Damen reached down to check, hard as a rock and leaking on his stomach. Laurent’s arms made a small, abortive flailing motion when Damen kissed down his body and licked the fluid up, curling his tongue around the tip of Laurent’s cock and going no further. 

“You can touch me,” Damen told him, amused. “Put your hands in my hair, if you like.”

Laurent’s pulse jumped in his neck, a faint flicker beneath his skin. Slowly, he did, fingers sinking into Damen’s thick hair tentatively. There was something incredibly endearing and satisfying about watching Laurent come out of his shell, feeling the new give of his body, seeing anticipation replace the trepidation in his eyes. Damen rewarded him with a slide of teeth across Laurent’s inner thigh, chuckling when Laurent’s legs opened wider, willing, until Damen could see his hole, pink and tightly furled like a flower waiting to bloom. It was wet from the water, like the rest of him, and Damen regarded it thoughtfully.

He looked up at Laurent, who was flushed. “Can I,” he started, considering his words carefully, “use my mouth on you again? Not your cock,” he clarified. Heat rose in Laurent’s cheeks. “I want to put my tongue inside of you, if you’ll let me.”

Laurent swore. “I – why would you want –”

It was a rare moment when Laurent of Vere was at a loss for words. Damen kissed his hip. “I want,” he said simply. “Do you?”

“I’ve…no one has ever –” Laurent cut himself off, looking away. The tension was returning. Damen slid warm palms up his legs, soothing. “I want,” Laurent admitted, barely a whisper, and closed his eyes.

Damen kept his fingers away. He instead leaned in, and kissed Laurent there, and Laurent shuddered, but it was contained, careful. Damen hummed, and a tendon stood out in Laurent’s neck. Damen should have guessed Laurent would be quiet and controlled in bed (or on a rock ledge), and found himself becoming oddly attuned to every little movement and sound, craving each tiny reaction.

When he licked, it was first at Laurent’s inner thigh, marveling at the slight tremble of muscle beneath his lips. Then at the heavy swell of his balls, suckling lightly over tender skin and fine golden hair, the fingers in Damen’s hair tightening almost to the point of pain. But when Damen’s tongue finally flicked against him, Laurent’s hands went slack, the tight grip turning to clumsy petting, his legs drawing apart further as Damen worked him open with his mouth, entranced by how Laurent’s body began to give way, slowly but surely. 

He tasted like salt and heat and when Damen’s tongue breached him it multiplied tenfold, not bad but different – Damen had never done this before; this was the only time he’d _wanted_ to do this, and he was taken aback by how _much_ he wanted it; how much they both wanted it; how Laurent’s defenses started to crumble under his tongue’s ministrations in the easy arch of his spine and squirm of his body, no longer with discomfort but writhing with sheer need.

Maybe it should have felt degrading, to do this to Laurent. But they were equals as far as Damen was concerned, in status and in worth, and it felt more like an honor than a humiliation to do this; to be allowed to do this. 

Laurent was letting him do this.

Damen exhaled unsteadily, reaching up at last to get a hand around Laurent’s cock, hard and wet in his palm. Laurent’s hips hitched up, and he moaned when Damen started stroking him in rough time with the slippery, painless penetration of his tongue. “Damen,” he said, strained and faint. “Damen, Damen, _Damianos_ –”

Damen groaned against his hole at the sound of his name, picking up Laurent’s legs and hitching them up over his shoulders so he could lick deeper, feeling Laurent quiver against his mouth, clenching and unclenching tightly like his fingers in Damen’s hair. Laurent was so close, his cock standing up over his belly obscenely, legs spread and hole dripping with Damen’s saliva and yet he was _still_ unconsciously holding himself back, thighs and hips trembling with tension and eyes squeezed shut. 

Damen kissed his way up to Laurent’s cock, caressing his thigh, his hip, the smooth curve of his rear. “Look at me,” he murmured. “Laurent, look at me.”

Laurent’s eyes fluttered open, startled bright blue fixing on Damen desperately. Damen didn’t know what he looked like, but he could guess by the way Laurent reacted, flush spreading down across his chest in a pink stain. “I see you,” Laurent said, strangled. He was struggling to keep his eyes open, to keep eye contact, as if he was used to hiding his climax. 

Maybe that was exactly what he was used to.

Damen didn’t break his gaze as he continued to pump Laurent’s cock, thumb brushing slickly over the head on every downstroke. “Let go,” Damen urged, and Laurent’s gaze wavered, rippled like a stormy sea. “Laurent, you can let go.” He stretched out his other hand, touching Laurent’s face softly, brushing his hair back from his eyes.

Laurent’s lips parted in a silent cry as he came, thick and hot against their bellies. He didn’t look away. It was the most beautiful thing Damen had ever seen. 

Laurent shuddered through the aftershocks, warm and sated under him, chest heaving. Damen gave him his space, rolling off and laying down beside him on the cool rock. The waterfall roared. Laurent panted. Damen was content. 

When Laurent caught his breath, he sat up, looking down at Damen with an expression of utter disbelief. “Are you real?” he asked seriously. 

Damen chuckled. “Was it that good?”

Laurent’s eyes narrowed. “You have my come all over your pants.”

Damen glanced down. He did, in fact, have Laurent’s come all over his pants. “Hm,” he said. “Perhaps we should take them off.”

Laurent’s hands were already at the fastenings, pulling them free with more force than necessary, and only when Damen’s cock was freed did his arousal come rushing back through him – he had been able to ignore it while focusing on Laurent’s pleasure, but now he was aching for touch, too far-gone to be embarrassed by how eagerly his cock curved up, dark with blood. 

Laurent was staring at it. Damen shifted to sit up, cock bobbing against his stomach. “I’m still not going to fuck you,” Damen said bluntly. He paused. “Yet.”

Laurent seemed frustrated. “I…I don’t think it’s very fair of you to do something like _that_ to me and not follow through.”

“I followed through,” Damen countered. “You came, didn’t you?”

Laurent’s brow lowered. “How am I expected to reciprocate?” he gritted out, and suddenly Damen understood. 

“You aren’t expected to do anything,” Damen replied. 

Laurent blinked. “But…you’re still –”

“Nothing you don’t want,” Damen assured him. “This isn’t a favor for a favor, Laurent. This is just…whatever you want to do.”

Laurent’s eyes were wide. “What I want,” he said hoarsely, “is to sit on your cock.” Damen sucked in a sharp breath. “But as that is not an option…” He hesitated, and then slung a leg over Damen’s thighs, settling in his lap so that Damen’s cock rubbed right against his ass, against where Damen had left him slick and loose. “This will have to do. Objections?”

In a choked voice Damen asked, “Can I touch you?”

In answer, Laurent kissed him, which was almost as surprising as his small but deliberate movements in Damen’s lap, rolling his hips in a way that was somehow both unsure and absolutely wanton. Damen clutched his waist gratefully, letting Laurent take his mouth and press him back against the stone, his hips rocking faster, sliding along the length of Damen’s swollen cock. Damen, unlike Laurent, was not quiet and had no desire to be, groaning his appreciation against Laurent’s lips as the sweet, sweet friction increased. 

Laurent broke the kiss, sliding his hands over Damen’s chest. “When you fuck me, it will be like this,” he murmured, lips brushing Damen’s ear. “With me riding you, kissing you, taking my pleasure from you.”

“Yes,” Damen agreed, helpless, head falling back and hips arching, the head of his cock pressing firmly at Laurent’s hole, just shy of penetration, making them both shudder. 

“Or would you rather pin me down and take me with all your barbarian strength, Damianos?” Laurent mused coolly, though his voice was uneven. “Fuck me so hard I feel it for days?”

Damen buried his face in Laurent’s throat. “Anything,” he half-begged, hands flexing on Laurent’s hips, his hips which had slowed to an excruciating grind. “Please –”

Laurent shushed him with another kiss, softer than the first, thighs squeezing and hands teasing at the base of Damen’s cock. “Come,” he ordered in a quiet voice that lacked command, only a sweet suggestion which Damen followed eagerly, groaning as his pleasure crested and he spilled. Laurent gripped his shoulders tightly, eyes darkening as Damen made the space between them sticky. 

Laurent shifted a little, the slide much easier now, and Damen almost cried out from oversensitivity. He did make a noise when Laurent climbed out of his lap, revealing the mess Damen had made on his inner thighs, dripping even on his spent cock. Laurent didn’t appear particularly upset about it, especially when he swiped a finger through some on his hip and brought it to his lips. 

Damen slumped against the rocks, and closed his eyes, basking in afterglow, listening with some disappointment to the faint splashing sound of Laurent wading away.

He was startled back into awareness when he felt something cool and wet on his skin, and opened his eyes to see Laurent silently cleaning him off with one of the cloths they’d found at the caravan. Damen smiled, hopelessly charmed. “You don’t have to do that,” he pointed out. “We’re in a lake.”

Laurent blushed. “I want to,” was all he said. When he was done, he stepped back, a little unsure, glancing towards the discarded chiton and Damen’s (stained) pants. He seemed entirely unsure as to what came next.

“You’re beautiful,” Damen told him, because it was true.

Laurent cleared his throat. “…Thank you.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “You are…also quite appealing.”

“Am I?” Damen raised an eyebrow, teasing. “Not too brutish for your refined tastes?”

Laurent sat next to him on the rocky ledge. “I think,” he said slowly, “brutish might be part of my refined tastes.”

“Oh?” Damen grinned. Laurent shot him a dangerous look. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

Laurent sighed. “I know.”

They sat in companionable silence, listening to the waterfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (@my lovely lovely readers - you can find me on tumblr @elfyecho, I post mainly captive prince and dragon age shit these days)
> 
> I added chapter titles because I had a little idea and I quite like it so I'm running with it. Enjoy your French/Greek vocab lesson.   
> Ah, yes. This chapter. Man oh man. I hope you enjoy, because it was a challenge to write the level of filthiness I wanted to while still keeping them as in character as possible. I think it's realistic enough because of all the shit they went through together previously, but let me know if something in particular bothers you!  
> Also, shoutout to Adam Lambert for his ideal smut-writing music, and to Microsoft Word for constantly trying to autocorrect "cock" to "clock." No, Damen does not have a clock in his mouth, stop trying to keep me from sinning.
> 
> & OMFG, I WAS LISTENING TO RUDE BOY BY RIHANNA WHILE WRITING THIS AND HAD TO STOP BC I WAS LAUGHING SO HARD IMAGINING LAURENT SINGING IT TO DAMEN. I AM TRASH. BUT C'MON, IT WORKS SO WELL.


	8. Dénouement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DÉNOUEMENT: the outcome or resolution of a doubtful series of occurrences (literally: to untie).

Laurent had never really understood the appeal of touching. He did not particularly like to be touched; he never had – even as a child he had only ever embraced Auguste, his father had not been a particularly affectionate man and his uncle was…well. Auguste had never let his uncle touch him.

And then after Marlas, when he had craved something other than the gaping loneliness and grief threatening to consume him…touch had become something not only unwanted but something that made him feel dirty and wrong and, more than anything, helpless. 

Laurent did not like to be touched.

But…he was beginning to understand the appeal. He was beginning to understand the appeal of touches meant only to give, never to take or demand; touches meant to show affection rather than to perform a duty; touches that were soft and careful; touches that could be stopped at any time with a single word and no repercussions. He was beginning to learn how to return such touches, and to unlearn what had been so wrongly taught. Laurent suspected Damen knew more than he let on about that, but they never spoke of it, and Laurent was grateful he never broached the topic. Laurent did not know what he would do if he did. 

They continued east through the Silva Ciminia, and did not run into any other monsters intent on devouring them. Laurent was grateful; because he was not sure he would be able to survive another several hours pressed against Damen in a tiny cave. Like it or not, his iron control was slipping when it came to Damen. He just…he just couldn’t help himself; everything they did felt so good. So good it made him wary that it would end any day now; that things would turn sour in an instant because nothing this good lasted long in Laurent’s experience. But it was so easy to pretend it would go on forever, an endless loop of pleasure and comfort in Damianos’s arms.

At night, when they lay together under the glittering stars, Laurent tried to reconcile the strong but gentle body curled around him with the man who had killed Auguste. Honorless, Laurent had called him once. And he had thought it was true. No, more than that, he had _known_ Damianos must be a monster, a murderer who deserved to die himself, at Laurent’s hand. He had spent years preparing to face Damianos, only to be confronted with a man, not a monster; a man Laurent could no longer envision himself killing. 

It was a strange thing, but perhaps not a bad one. Damen was a good man, despite all the attempts Laurent had made to expose something darker in him. Auguste would have liked him. Perhaps, in another world, they would have even been friends. 

*

On their sixth day in the jungle, Laurent told Damen this. 

Damen’s steps faltered. He glanced at Laurent carefully. “Friends?” he echoed. He smiled a little. “I think I would like that other world.”

Laurent smiled to himself. “Of course, it would have some downsides,” he told him. “You would be forced to actually court me like a gentleman instead of gaining my trust through a long series of unfortunate events and a less unfortunate series of jungle liaisons.”

Damen’s smile fell. “That wouldn’t be a downside,” he said. “I want to change the past more than anything, Laurent, I hope you know that.” 

“I thought you wanted to go home more than anything?” 

Damen’s mouth lifted, small and sad. “If I changed the past, I would be home. So would you.”

Laurent swallowed. “Things would be different, between us,” he murmured. “I would be different.” His gaze drifted to Damen’s back. “You would be different.”

“True,” Damen said, “but I think I would still want you as soon as I lay eyes on you.”

Laurent flushed. “Don’t lie; I know you hated me when we first met. You had every reason to, as I did with you.”

Damen shrugged, a little uncomfortable. “Hatred and attraction are not mutually exclusive.” 

Laurent cleared his throat. “Perhaps not,” he admitted, the memory of the muscled Akielon on his knees glaring at him with paint-smeared skin and golden chains refusing to leave his mind. “But for the record, I am glad we have…moved past that.”

Damen’s gaze was warm. “As am I.”

Laurent was struck with the ridiculous urge to take Damen’s hand as they walked; he managed to restrain himself, though just barely. He turned to a lighter subject. “You claim courting me properly would not be a downfall. I think you underestimate the complexity of Veretian courtship…and the protectiveness of my brother.”

Damen’s eyes twinkled. “But you said he and I would be friends. I can’t imagine it would be that difficult to get his blessing.”

Laurent snorted. “Imagine you had a younger, bookish brother who was suddenly approached by a battle-hardened Akielon warrior with a promiscuous reputation.”

“Battle-hardened?” Damen repeated, preening a little. And then, brow furrowing, “ _Promiscuous?_ ”

Laurent rolled his eyes. “Do you prefer ‘sexually active and experienced?’”

“That’s more accurate.” Damen grinned. "I would assure Auguste I had no intentions of…besmirching your virtue.”

“Besmirching?” Laurent chortled. “Where did you learn that word?”

Damen wiggled his eyebrows. “I learned it while besmirching someone’s virtue, as a matter of fact.”

Laurent almost tripped on a root. Laughing, Damen caught his arm. “You are insufferable,” Laurent said breathlessly. Damen just laughed, his face so open and happy that Laurent never wanted to look away. “Fine, then – if you were not besmirching my virtue, how would you go about courting me?”

Damen’s hand settled on his shoulder, an oddly familiar weight. “I may not be familiar with Veretian customs, but I could learn them for you.” Laurent’s heart actually fluttered. “Tell me about them.”

Laurent’s mouth was suddenly very dry. “Ah…well, of course the process is much more subtle and drawn-out than it is with you Akielons. It is customary to start with a series of small tokens, such as sweets or baubles –”

“Or books?” Damen quipped.

Laurent’s face felt very hot. “No, books are more personal gifts; those would be given in the second step of courtship, once they know they have an admirer. If you were to give books, they could contain ciphers, riddles or codes alluding to the sender’s identity.” He bit his lip. “Sometimes clothing is given also.”

Damen nudged him. “I would send you chitons by the dozens.”

“I would not wear any of them,” Laurent retorted.

“At least not where anyone else could see you,” Damen added, and Laurent huffed, though he was right.

“The third step is a series of letters, usually poems about the recipient. At this point the sender can choose to sign them or not.”

“I’d choose not,” Damen said. “I’ve…never written poetry before.”

“Yes, but you’re a terrible sap so it shouldn’t be too difficult,” Laurent retorted. “Although, you’re right, best to save your identity reveal until the fourth step.”

“Which is?”

“Arranging a meeting,” Laurent said. “Somewhere secluded and romantic, usually. Don’t give me that look, the meeting is supposed to be chaste. Anything more than kissing would be considered indecent.”

“I find it hard to believe that anything is considered indecent in Vere,” Damen muttered. 

“At least we don’t go around wearing bed sheets,” Laurent countered. “Anyway. The fifth stage is the final stage. The sender presents the recipient a final, special gift in person, and if the recipient decides to accept the courtship, they in turn deliver a similarly special gift to their new paramour. Then the besmirching can commence, which I know is the only part you’re interested in.”

Damen paused, looking at him earnestly. “I am very interested in giving you gifts,” he said. “Particularly special ones.”

“Are you,” Laurent said unevenly. “What special gift would you give me, Damianos?”

Their footsteps were loud in the sudden silence as Damen considered it. Then, “A new horse,” he said.

Laurent blinked, startled by the seriousness of his response. Thinking of his old mare, the one his uncle had poisoned, brought an unpleasant lump to his throat. His chest tightened.

“Laurent?” Damen reached out hesitantly. 

“That,” Laurent managed to choke out, “would be a very good gift.”

Damen smiled. “Then I will get it for you,” he said. 

But Laurent sighed. “How will you gift me with a horse all the way from Akielos?”

Damen stopped walking. He looked down. “I’m not going to Akielos,” he said.

Laurent stopped. He looked at Damen sharply. “Excuse me?”

“It would be wrong,” Damen said, “to leave your side now, when our trials are only beginning. I’m staying.”

Laurent sucked in a breath. “You have a throne to reclaim –”

“So do you. So why not reclaim our thrones together?”

Laurent’s eyes widened. “Are you suggesting –”

Damen cut him off. “I am merely suggesting a continuation of our alliance.”

Laurent regarded him suspiciously. “But I do not understand why you would want –”

“I want,” Damen said.

Laurent’s mouth quirked. “You might just slow me down,” he said. “I’m not convinced you’ll be a useful – mmph!” Damen kissed him firmly, pulling him in with an arm snaked around his waist, thumb rubbing small circles against his hip. It was a brief kiss, yet one that left Laurent unconsciously wanting more, letting Damen hold him close.

“I am the most useful ally you could have,” Damen murmured, breath feathering across his lips. “I am the rightful Akielon king, returned from the dead. I have friends in the Akielon army; the troops of Delpha will defect to me. Once Kastor’s deception is revealed, the rest of the provinces will follow, and I can assist you in a northern campaign.”

“For being stuck in an island jungle, you seem very sure of yourself,” Laurent retorted, stepping back. “And Delfeur’s army is a generous offer. But you would not give this to me without a price, and I tire of owing you debts.”

Damen’s brow furrowed. “What do you have to offer in exchange, then?”

Laurent looked at him steadily. “When Patras visited Arles, my uncle gave them trade deals. I gave them slaves. They gave me a promise of military support.”

Damen’s eyes widened; Laurent relished the surprise on his face. “And does that alliance still stand?”

“I suppose we shall see,” Laurent said, “but I wager Torveld would be quite sympathetic to our cause.”

“ _Our_ cause?” Damen repeated.

Laurent cursed his traitorous tongue. “I only meant – since we would be a united force –”

“I know what you meant,” Damen said. 

“We are losing daylight,” Laurent snapped, turning on his heel and marching off through the undergrowth, blaming his pounding heart on the exertion of hours of walking. 

Behind him, Damen sighed, and followed.

*

By the time they made camp the sun was setting, a magnificent display of color above the treetops. If nothing else, Laurent would miss Artesian sunsets. He was less keen when it came to the piles of leaves and shirts he was meant to sleep on, and especially tonight he wished the makeshift cot was larger, so that he would not be forced to come into contact with Damen no matter what position he twisted himself into. 

When they were both settled and the sky darkened, Damen touched his hip with something like intent. Laurent flinched.

“Not now,” he hissed. Damen snatched his hand back as if burned. Laurent waited for the inevitable questioning, but there was nothing except a soft exhale and crunch of leaves as Damen rolled over and away, giving him as much space as possible. Laurent squeezed his eyes shut. Oh, at times he wanted so badly to find that anger and loathing that had once consumed him in Damen’s presence. But when Damen did things like that – simple things that somehow meant so much – he could not find anything within himself but aching fondness and a throb of guilt for feeling it. 

Maybe Auguste would understand. Maybe Auguste would forgive him for being so weak, for succumbing to the taint in their family.

Laurent found himself unable to drift off, every little sound of the jungle enough to fill him with unease, every soft snore of Damen setting him on edge. He stared up at the stars, at the waning moon, halfway gone. It was strange to think that it was the same moon in Vere. The same moon in Akielos, too.

Laurent had no love for the deception and debauchery of Arles. But he missed his home. He wondered if he would ever see it again, or if he and Damen would die here, lost princes in a lost empire. 

As if on cue, a sudden lightness in the trees played at the corner of Laurent’s vision, and he sat up hastily, turning towards it and narrowing his eyes. They had made camp alongside a stream in a grove of smaller trees accompanied by thick, curling ferns and large, fragrant flowers – between two of the small trees he could make out a soft glow, a blue-white radiance like nothing he had seen before. No, that was not quite true – it reminded him of moonlight, or starlight, but concentrated and brought to earth, a fallen fragment of sky in the dark jungle. 

Laurent did not like it. It was too beautiful to not be dangerous. Still, he found himself getting up, pulling one of the shirts around his shoulders and shivering – there was a chill in the air that had not been there before. The jungle had not fallen silent as it had with the monster, but it was markedly quieter, and Laurent’s footsteps sounded too loud as he neared the source of the light. He reached a low-hanging tree, its large leaves blocking his way. He hesitated, and pushed through them.

“Hello, little brother,” said Auguste.

Laurent reeled backwards. “ _What_ ,” he said, a broken sound that barely resembled a word.

Auguste extended a hand to him. Yes, it was Auguste, who looked exactly as he had the day he died, though without his armor. His white shirt was slightly rumpled, just like his golden hair, a shade darker than Laurent’s. Yet his tanned skin was alight with that unearthly glow, just like his eyes, bright as sapphires. “It has been too long, Laurent,” he said, smiling that guileless smile of his, a smile with no sardonic edge to it, a smile of nothing but joy. 

“You,” Laurent gritted out, “you’re not real. You can’t be.”

Auguste shook his head fondly. “Always so suspicious. Why can’t I be real?”

Laurent braced himself against a tree, knuckles white. “You’re dead.”

Auguste took a step towards him. “Just because I am dead doesn’t mean I’m not real. It doesn’t mean I’m not here with you, little brother.”

“I don’t understand,” Laurent breathed, knowing this had to be an illusion, a trick – but he looked so real, he sounded so real; and when he reached out and touched Laurent’s shoulder he felt real enough that Laurent’s eyes pricked with tears. “How…”

“This is a strange land,” Auguste said quietly. “A land of gods and dragons. Why should it not be a land of ghosts, as well?” His head tilted; he was still taller than Laurent though they were nearly the same age, now. “The world is full of impossible things.”

Laurent swallowed. “Why are you here?” he whispered. “Are you…” _At peace_ , he wanted to say, but the words would not come.

“Hush,” Auguste murmured. “You needn’t worry about me, little brother. I am here because I worry about you.”

Laurent flushed. “There is nothing to be worried about –”

A fair eyebrow arched. “No? I should not be concerned about you bedding my killer?”

Laurent felt as though he’d just been doused with a bucket of ice water. “You don’t understand,” he started, desperately. “I didn’t want to –”

Auguste drew himself up to his full height. “He’s forcing himself upon you?”

“No,” Laurent said in a small voice, ashamed. “No, but I hated him, Auguste, I _hated_ him for what he did to you, I almost killed him because of it –”

“Why didn’t you?” Auguste snapped. 

“He’s…he’s not the man I thought he was.”

“No? He’s not the man who killed me, then?” Auguste’s voice trembled with anger. “I thought you swore to avenge me.”

“Auguste, please, listen –”

“How could you,” Auguste whispered, shaking his head. “You betrayed me. You dishonor my memory.”

Laurent stared at him, frantic, hands curling into fists. “I can’t bring you back by avenging you,” Laurent said. “Killing him would only bring me more grief. And I need him to take back my throne.”

“You always were weak,” Auguste started, and Laurent paused, eyes narrowing. His head cleared, and suddenly Auguste was blurry at the edges, his skin too bright, the lines of his face too sharp; illusory. 

“What are you,” he said flatly. “You are not my brother.”

Auguste smiled, but it was not his smile, it was something cold and twisted and cruel. “Clever Laurent,” he crooned. “But I’m afraid your murderous lover is not so lucky.”

Laurent glanced back to the camp.

Damen was not there.

Auguste threw back his head and laughed. “You’d best hurry and find him before she ensnares him completely, little brother.”

“She?” Laurent echoed, and then he saw it, another glow in the trees opposite, and his heart pounded with dread. He approached it with the creature wearing Auguste’s face trailing behind him and chuckling. Finally, he saw Damen. And, standing before him, cupping his face, was a beautiful blonde woman who could only be Jokaste.

Laurent froze. Jokaste’s voice was a persuasive purr, and Damen was not resisting her advances, his eyes glazed as if he was sleepwalking. “He hurt you,” she murmured. “He delighted in every lash of the whip across your back; he hired Govart to beat and rape you in the ring; he humiliated you in the garden against your will without a second thought.”

Damen’s breathing was heavy. 

“He hated you; why do you think that’s changed now? He is a manipulative Veretian born to lie and cheat and that is exactly what he will do to you once he’s gotten what he wants. He will sleep with you a thousand times if he knows you can give him his crown. And when he has that? He will cast you aside, or worse, he will betray you and you will forever be known as the king who led Akielos into ruin.”

Jokaste stroked Damen’s hair, lashes lowered and voice softening. “You deserve a much better legacy, Exalted. Do not let him stand in your way.”

“I won’t.” Damen’s voice did not sound like his own.

Laurent’s blood ran cold as, slowly, Damen turned to face him, expression terrifyingly blank. The Akielon’s hands curled into fists. Auguste laughed. Jokaste sneered. Laurent took a step back. Damen lunged.

Laurent dodged the first blow, but the second sent him stumbling backwards, the healing cut on his lip reopened and his jaw aching. Damen continued to advance, eyes nearly black with rage, flat and feral like an animal’s. Laurent hurried backwards, hands raised, knowing that he had little chance of beating Damen in hand-to-hand combat. 

“Damen,” he said in the voice he would use for a spooked horse, “you’re not in your right mind. That isn’t Jokaste. It’s a monster, just like the one who could mimic other people’s voices –”

“Shut up,” Damen snarled, just as Laurent’s shuffling feet caught on a root and sent him sprawling into the undergrowth, Damen looming over him. “You’re a snake, and I should have done this a long time ago.”

“No –” Laurent managed before Damen was on him, hand pressed against his windpipe, crushing. Laurent choked and kicked, scrabbling at Damen’s arms and face with sharp nails and kneeing him in the groin, but Damen was immovable as a statue, glaring at Laurent with pure, uncontrollable bloodlust. Laurent writhed even as his vision began to spot – he was not going to die like this. He refused to. 

“Damianos, stop,” he rasped, bucking against him, momentarily loosening Damen’s grip and gulping in air before it tightened again, twice as strong. 

Then the moonlight caught on something glinting at Damen’s waist, and Laurent’s heart leapt – Vesta’s pin. Damen’s chest was bare and unprotected. Laurent thrashed under him once more, managing to free an arm enough to grasp the pin and tug it free, and without any thought but survival, he jabbed its sharp point as hard as he could into Damen’s scarred shoulder, and slashed across it. 

Damen howled with pain, releasing Laurent’s neck, blood dripping down his collar as he clutched at the reopened wound. Laurent scrambled away on all fours, cursing as Damen grabbed his ankle, yanking him back. “You,” Damen warned, “are going to pay for that.”

Laurent could see Jokaste and Auguste behind him, hazy forms of light with hungry eyes, faded at the edges. And Damen, his eyes still dark with anger but faltering with the pain. _I’m sorry_ , Laurent thought, and with the last of his strength reached up and sliced the pin across Damen’s forehead.

It was a shallow cut; Laurent did not make it to cause real damage. He made it for the blood to pour into Damen’s eyes, breaking whatever spell he was under for long enough that Laurent could wriggle free as Damen floundered in near-blindness and confusion, alternating between sheer panic and rage. 

The simulacrums of Jokaste and Auguste were so bright they had lost their human characteristics, dissolved into shining beacons of malevolence. “Release him,” Laurent ordered, stalking towards them. “Whatever you did to him, stop it.”

“Not until he kills you,” Jokaste giggled, a sound like a hundred ringing bells. “Not until he kills you and comes to his senses and kills himself!”

Damen was wiping the blood from his face, getting to his feet again. Laurent was running out of time. “Stop,” he tried again, desperate. “What do you want from us?!”

The two lights laughed, bobbing and flaring brighter. “Your agony,” they replied in unison. “Your suffering, your strife, your terror. We can taste it already – you’re afraid to die – you’re afraid he’ll be the one who kills you –”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Laurent snarled, and, because he had nothing else, slashed the pin across Jokaste’s glowing suggestion of a chest. It should have done nothing.

But what it did was make her scream, or at least that was what the sound’s human counterpart would be called. Like broken glass and swords on stone she screamed, the light fizzling out where the pin touched it, and as Laurent did the same to Auguste’s copy his own cry shattered the air, the lights shrinking and sputtering, finally going out completely in a wail of anguish. 

Behind him, Damen gasped, and as Laurent turned warily, he found him braced against the trunk of a tree, chest heaving, shoulder bleeding sluggishly and his face streaked with drying scarlet.

Laurent took a hesitant step closer and Damen’s head snapped up. Laurent was numb with relief when he saw Damen’s eyes were as soft and clear as usual, but they were also full of fear and guilt, and when Laurent tried to come closer Damen shook his head frantically. “Don’t – it’s not safe, I’m not safe, please…”

Laurent, adopting the spooked horse tone again (though in a croakier voice), continued to approach. “That wasn’t you,” he said, “and you know it. I know it.”

Damen made a miserable noise. “Your neck,” he whispered, voice breaking.

Laurent could not see his own neck, but he was certain it displayed an impressive collection of bruises shaped like Damen’s fingers. “Your shoulder and head,” he countered, stopping a few feet away.

Damen stared at him like a lost puppy. “I could have killed you,” he said. “Laurent, I almost killed you.”

“I could have killed you. A few inches to the left, and I would have cut your jugular. And, as Not-Jokaste helpfully pointed out, I almost killed you once already. Now we are even.”

“If I had killed you,” Damen choked out, “Laurent, I…I don’t know how I would have lived with myself.”

Laurent swallowed. His throat hurt. “Let me bandage your head before you lose any more blood and start saying any more foolish things.”

Damen took only one step back before giving in, shivering as Laurent tore a strip of fabric from the shirt around his shoulders and bound it around his head, watching the cut soak the fabric red. He was more worried about Damen’s shoulder. “We need to clean that,” he murmured, “before it gets infected again. And your face is covered in blood.”

Damen walked with him silently to the stream. He kept a space between them, carefully measured so that Laurent was not even in danger of being _breathed on_ by him. Laurent huffed as Damen knelt beside the stream and began wiping his face off with one of the dwindling spare shirts, the fabric coming away rust-colored, the sharp metallic scent of blood in the air. Damen winced at the sight of it, which was ridiculous – the man had seen more blood than Laurent, surely, and yet he was unsettled by a scratch on his brow and bruises on Laurent’s neck.

Speaking of which…Laurent went to sit beside the stream, rolling his eyes when Damen tensed as he neared him, relaxing when he chose a spot several feet away to peer at his reflection with morbid curiosity. Laurent squinted down into the clear water – and sucked in a sharp, pained breath, immediately understanding Damen’s panic. The entirety of his neck and collar was mottled with angry red and purpling contusions, darker over the front of his throat where Damen had tried to crush his airway. On Damen’s skin, such marks would be mostly hidden, but they were impossible to miss on Laurent’s, the vague outline of Damen’s fingers wrapped around his neck still visible, like a brand. 

Yes, Damen could kill him with his bare hands. But Laurent had known this. Many men could kill him with their bare hands, if they tried, and if he wasn’t lucky. He looked down at the pin in his hands. He had been lucky, this time.

Damen was quiet, wringing the cloth out and trying to dab at his shoulder, face twisted in discomfort.

Laurent, struck by the memory of Damen trying to put the salve on his healing back, rose and went to help him, taking the cloth from his hands and reaching out. But Damen shrank back, shaking his head even as his shoulder continued to bleed. “Stop being an idiot,” Laurent snapped. “Or I’ll stab you again.”

Damen didn’t smile. His expression was unmistakably fearful, gaze flicking again to Laurent’s neck. “I’m so sorry –”

Laurent held up the pin threateningly. “Not another word, brute.”

‘Brute’ was the wrong thing to call him; Laurent saw the unhappy curve of his lips and the hot flush of shame in his cheeks. Damen hunched his shoulders as if, ridiculously, trying to make himself smaller. His hands flexed and curled in his lap, and he turned his head away. 

Laurent bit his lip ruefully. Sarcasm was evidently not helping. “You know I don’t really mean that,” he offered, shuffling closer. “You’re not a brute. You can be quite gentle, actually.” He pressed the cloth to Damen’s shoulder, looking up at him through his lashes. “You are always exceptionally gentle with me.”

Damen stared at him, brows drawing together. “You’re…not upset.”

“That you fell under the spell of a powerful, malevolent forest spirit impersonating your lover and tried to kill me after she listed off many viable reasons to do so?” Laurent sighed. “No. It would unfair of me to get upset with you over that. Hold still.”

“Former,” Damen said, a little dazed. 

Laurent eyed him quizzically. Perhaps he’d lost more blood than he’d previously thought. “What?”

“Jokaste,” Damen said slowly, “is my former lover.”

Laurent’s breath caught. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” drawled a familiar voice. 

Laurent almost dropped the cloth. Because standing on the other side of the stream was Nicaise, smirking and folding his arms, glowing faintly. 

Damen and Laurent were on their feet in seconds. Laurent jabbed the pin menacingly towards him and Nicaise (Not-Nicaise, Laurent quickly amended) blanched, his cool demeanor slipping as he leapt back, blue eyes wide. “That’s really not necessary,” he squeaked. “Unlike the Erinyes, I have no desire to cause further damage to either of you.” He pursed his lips. “I daresay neither of you can take any further damage, at this rate.”

“Explain yourself,” Laurent demanded. “Right now.”

“Leash your Veretian, would you?” Not-Nicaise said nervously to Damen. “I’d rather he not wave that iron in my face. Iron and faeries don’t mix, as you so dramatically demonstrated on the Erinyes.”

“You’re a faery,” Damen repeated. “Uh-huh. And – what do you mean, the Erinyes? Those are myths, they don’t really –”

“Did you or did you not almost strangle him just now?” Not-Nicaise retorted. “The Erinyes are very much real, unfortunately.”

“What are the Erinyes?” Laurent asked warily. He didn’t lower the pin. 

“It’s an Akielon myth,” Damen said, still looking at Not-Nicaise with a little frown. “They’re spirits of discord and vengeance who feed off of human suffering.”

“Well, that’s just…” Laurent narrowed his eyes at Not-Nicaise. “And you expect us to believe you’re not one of them?”

Not-Nicaise puffed out his small chest. “Of course I’m not! What a repulsive idea. _I_ am a Naiad.”

Laurent stared at him blankly. “Freshwater spirit fond of drowning handsome men,” Damen added helpfully. He pointed to the stream at their feet. “This is yours, then? Not much room for drowning.”

Not-Nicaise glowered at Damen. “Maybe _you_ wouldn’t fit in it, but the Veretian would, easily. Shall we test that theory?” Damen’s eyes narrowed. “Or not, or not, nobody needs to drown at all, that’s fine!”

Laurent lowered the pin. It was clear the Naiad, faery, whatever it was, was more scared of them than they were of it. “If you’re not here to drown us, what are you here for?”

He blinked at Laurent slowly. “I suppose,” he said, “I was simply intrigued by how a mere mortal managed to resist the Erinyes’ will. Especially since they took a form so…dear to you.”

Laurent folded his arms. “I have been told,” he gritted out, “that I possess a very strong will of my own.” Damen snorted. That was putting it lightly.

Not-Nicaise still regarded him with what could have been admiration, and though he knew it wasn’t really Nicaise, it made Laurent’s heart hurt. “Clearly. I have seen far too many fall to those particular Erinyes, and I must say your survival was an exciting twist. Watching humans tear each other apart over and over again does get so dull.”

“Happy to provide some entertainment,” Laurent muttered. He felt like he was scraping his throat with sandpaper every time he spoke. “You still haven’t answered the question.”

Not-Nicaise rocked back on his heels. “I thought I might reward you for being so amusing. So I have taken it upon myself to hurry you two along on your journey.” He tilted his head, hair glittering with the suggestion of sapphires that glinted in the moonlight. “If you would follow me.” And he turned on his heel and skipped away through the ferns.

Damen gaped. Laurent threw up his hands. “Why not?” 

“I don’t want to drown,” Damen retorted. 

“And I don’t want to spend another minute in this jungle.” Laurent handed him the bloodied pin and hurried after Not-Nicaise, hoping Naiads were only homicidal sometimes. 

*

Not-Nicaise did not lead them to a body of water large enough to drown even Damianos. Instead, he stopped about half an hour later in front of a carriage on the side of what appeared to be a roughly-hewn road, the first they’d seen in the Silva Ciminia so far. There were two gray horses yoked to the carriage, prancing nervously, and beside them on the road lay the bodies of a Veretian couple in full panoply, both of their necks marked like Laurent’s, except their asphyxiation had been far more successful. Damen stopped in his tracks, and Laurent did not have to look to know his expression was horrified.

Not-Nicaise stepped over their bodies with a sniff. “Silly Veretian nobles thought they would go exploring for their honeymoon. You can see how well that worked out.”

Laurent understood as soon as he took in the nobles’ appearances – the lady was fair and her long blonde hair spilled across the road; the lord had dark hair and a stocky build that hardly compared to Damen’s, but it was similar enough that Damen would probably mostly fit into his clothes. 

“This is our way out,” Laurent said to Damen. “The Naiad is suggesting we impersonate them.”

Damen looked accusingly at Not-Nicaise. “You can’t be serious.”

“Can’t I? They are minor nobles with a ship waiting for them in the harbor, which is about twenty miles east. There are boarding passes in the carriage, in a trunk with their clothes. I believe their surname is Delacroix. Damien Delacroix does have a certain ring to it…”

“No!” Damen protested. “It absolutely does not!”

“At least you don’t have to wear a dress,” Laurent said mildly, eying the frothy gown of silk and pearls. It actually didn’t look half-bad, though a bit extravagant for his tastes. 

“And you could be Laurel,” Not-Nicaise continued, gleeful. “Damien’s sweet new wife.”

“Are we really doing this,” Damen said, choked, as Laurent climbed into the carriage and opened the trunk, pulling out the least decorated gown (peacock blue with floral beading) and holding it up. “Laurent, there has to be another way.”

“I like this way,” Laurent declared. “Get dressed, _Damien_.”

Not-Nicaise held up a finger. “There is one thing first – no Veretian nobles would look half as mangled as you two.” Laurent supposed they were rather worse for the wear. “Don’t expect other Naiads to be so generous,” he said, and then a strange sensation like warm fog swept over Laurent, and when it passed his throat no longer hurt, and Damen’s brow and shoulder were healed.

Damen blinked. “How did you –”

“Hush. I’m not done. Get dressed while I get you a proper footman.”

Laurent took that as his cue to start stripping, much to Damen’s shock. Laurent didn’t particularly care if a faery saw him nude, anyway, especially since said faery was currently very focused on a large toad sitting atop a nearby stump. And, well, Damen had more than seen him nude already.

“I don’t think Veretian lords go shirtless,” Laurent informed Damen as he shucked his pants and slipped on the undergarments and dress in quick succession. It didn’t quite fit, for obvious reasons, but it sold the illusion and that was what mattered. It was also very soft. “Snap to it, husband dearest.”

Damen turned red and snatched up a tunic and breeches, staring at the many laces with dismay. Laurent leaned back against the carriage, already looking forward to this charade. He raised an eyebrow as Damen managed fairly well with the pants but struggled with the shirt, unable to lace up the back. Revenge for the chiton, Laurent thought smugly, but after several seconds he took pity and caught Damen’s wrists, lacing up the back for him with practiced ease. Damen tensed but let him, though he stepped away as soon as Laurent was done. 

The clothes didn’t quite fit Damen, either, but Laurent was not complaining. 

“Ah,” Laurent said, glancing to the corpses on the road. “There…is one last matter.” Damen watched him warily as he went to the dead nobles, leaning down and picking up their cold, limp hands – yes, just as he had thought, each had a matching golden band on their third finger. He took their rings, which clinked in his palm as he brought them back to Damen, putting the smaller one on his own finger before handing the larger one to the Akielon.

Damen did not take it. “Did you just steal their wedding rings?” he hissed. 

Laurent shrugged. “Yes. They weren’t much use to them anymore, whereas they will be necessary for anyone to believe us. Bastardry is taboo is Vere, as you well know. Without these, we would be scorned for even holding hands.”

Damen grimaced and took the ring. “But with them, we can do anything, no matter how vile and carnal? Lovely.”

Laurent frowned right back. “We are nobles, not pets.”

Damen scoffed. “Ah, right, silly me. We just have the pets perform for us in the most demeaning ways possible – or have other pets perform on them. Ring any bells?”

Laurent paused, the past crackling between them like frost. It did, of course, ring a bell – Damen, chained to the bower, with Ancel between his legs as all the nobles gathered ‘round. Laurent swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat and instead turned coolly to Damen. “You seemed to enjoy it well enough,” he said. “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t stay until the very end, did I?”

Damen’s mouth twisted, his eyes dark with…something. Frustration, anger, uncertainty – Laurent could not tell. For a moment he was struck with remorse – a useless emotion, really; but looking at Damen he could not stop himself from feeling it. Laurent knew what it felt like to have pleasure forced upon him. And yet he had done the same thing to Damen – Damen, who wouldn’t even kiss him without asking first. 

But he had not known that then, Laurent told himself. He had not known Damianos as he did now.

But did that truly excuse his cruelty? His cruelty, which had not ended in the garden with Ancel; not even close, and had begun long before that. 

_You killed my brother_ , he thought, staring at Damianos and his accusatory gaze, trying to summon up his old hatred. But it fell short; the knowledge lacked its previous venom and just felt empty instead, empty and petty and _cruel_.

 _Am I cruel?_ Laurent thought, still looking at Damen. He feared the answer, because he feared he knew it already, reflected back at him in Damen’s eyes.

A loud _bang_ on the side of the road broke the silence and drew their attention to Not-Nicaise and the toad. The former had singed fingertips and wild hair, and the latter had been replaced by a slim man who looked very much like a respectable footman. Sure enough, he marched over and took his place at the reins. Not-Nicaise smirked. “Get to the harbor by noon, or your footman will croak. You’re welcome. Try not to die.” And then he was gone in the blink of an eye, leaving behind a small puddle of water which reflected the moon and the lightening sky. 

“Did all of that really just happen?” Damen asked.

“I hope so,” Laurent replied, “because we have a ship to catch.”

*

The carriage ride would have been greatly improved if Damen hadn’t insisted on keeping at least six inches between them at all times, recoiling violently whenever the carriage went over a bump large enough to make them brush sides. That was off-putting; Laurent doubted he looked that awful in a dress and the bruises on his neck were gone, so he saw little reason for Damen’s sudden aversion to him. Unless he was still blaming himself for the Erinyes incident, in which case Laurent was not going to bother talking him down again.

They reached the port an hour or so past dawn, and their toad footman obediently brought the carriage up to the ship, a striking caravel with billowing white sails and the name _Étoile de la Mer_ carved on the bow in curling, gilded script. Lesser nobles? Laurent wasn’t so sure about that.

With that in mind, he exited the carriage with all the grace of a queen, taking Damen’s hand as was proper though he could see the distaste in Damen’s eyes. Laurent ignored it, lifting his skirts as he stepped onto the docks. He recalled in vivid, unpleasant detail the last time they had been to an Artesian port, chained and stripped of their clothing and dignity. 

This time people still stared, but for very different reasons. No, this time the sailors and merchants and slaves alike stared because they found themselves in the unexpected presence of nobility; perhaps even royalty – they had no way of knowing, they knew only that the golden lady and her tall, dark, handsome lord were above them. 

Laurent took ahold of Damen’s arm, not missing the way he flinched at the contact. Damen did not look at him, even as a sailor came out to them from the ship, bowing his head briefly before escorting them up the gangplank, with the toad footman carrying their two trunks behind them. The sailor, who was babbling on about the ship’s crew and qualifications, led them to their quarters, which were abovedecks and adjacent to the captain’s. 

They were very nice quarters, with stained glass windows and Veretian décor, the bed surrounded by a canopy of red velvet drapes. There was a large armoire with a floor-length mirror and several fancy oils and perfumes atop it, and in the corner was a small washbasin. The room was small, as ship cabins tended to be, but clearly they were guests of honor here. Laurent thanked him in a soft, honeyed voice that made the sailor’s ears turn pink as he stammered a reply. 

The toad footman set the trunks down before retreating. That was the last they saw of him. The sailor departed soon after. Damen shrugged Laurent off of him and crossed the room, arms folded, discarding Vesta’s bloodied pin atop the armoire on his way. Laurent waited; he clearly had something on his mind. But a minute passed and still Damen was silent, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. The island air was hot and humid, stifling in the dress, and Laurent made certain the door was locked before taking the gown off, leaving him in the white undershirt and chausses. Damen twitched at the rustling of fabric but still said not a word.

Laurent approached, footsteps creaking on the wooden floor, and that was when Damen spoke.

“Don’t.”

Laurent stopped, bewildered. “Don’t? I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

Damen groaned and shook his head. “Stop treating me like a fool, Laurent.” His jaw clenched. “Stop treating me like a brute. But that’s all you see me as, isn’t it? A savage, stupid Akielon who killed your brother, but who would give you the army you need as long as you pretend to care even a little about him.”

Laurent’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I see,” he said. “Are you certain that’s not still Jokaste talking?”

Damen exhaled, shaking his head in disbelief. “And you don’t even deny it. You always were a good actor, I’ll give you that.”

Laurent’s voice trembled. “You think,” he said, “that after everything…after what you’ve done, what we’ve done – you think I was _using_ you?”

Damen barked out a laugh. “Yes, Laurent. Yes, I do think that. I think you knew how much I wanted you and manipulated that to your advantage. Isn’t that what you always do?”

Laurent stood very still. “You do not think me capable of wanting you back.”

“I know you aren’t,” Damen said wearily. “What I did to you is unforgivable in your mind, and I understand that, but that doesn’t give you the right to hurt me to achieve your own ends.” He looked at Laurent with resolve. “If you still desire an alliance, it will be my troops in exchange for yours, not my troops freely given as before. I was naïve to even consider that.”

Laurent swayed a little, and told himself it was the ship, leaving its moorings, bared to the rolling waves.

Damen rose from the bed, perhaps seeing the distress on his face. “Laurent, I know it’s just how you are –”

“How I…how I _am_?” Laurent repeated, incredulous, hands shaking. “What, so you do not think I do anything without ulterior motive? Do you think I care for nothing and no one? Do you honestly think I would fuck you just to gain your military support?”

Damen ran a hand through his hair, not meeting his eyes. Laurent drew in a deep breath that did little to calm him. 

“You are the second person to ever lie with me, and the only person I ever wanted to lie with me.” Laurent did not mean to say it, but when he did Damen faltered, taken off-guard, his brow lowering as the confession sunk in. “And yet you are convinced,” Laurent said as steadily as he was able, “that the only reason I would ever take you to my bed is to use you.” He turned away. “Good to know.”

“Laurent –”

“Please,” Laurent retorted, refusing to look at him, “insult me further. Tell me more about my inability to be anything but cold and callous. Tell me about how I came to trust you but, evidently, you never truly trusted the frigid Veretian because everything I do is for personal gain only. I am dying to hear it.”

Damen was quiet. “You expect me to believe you have forgiven me for Auguste?”

“I expect you to believe nothing from me,” Laurent snapped. 

“Have you?” Damen pressed. 

“No,” Laurent said. “You’re right, that’s unforgivable. But you have done more than your fair share of atoning for it. If you had not been sent to Artes with me, I suspect I would have been turned into the numb, empty creature you already see me as.”

He heard Damen’s sharp intake of breath. “I don’t see you as that,” he murmured after a beat. “I see you as a future king who will likely be far more successful at claiming his throne than I will. While I am forced to muddle through battles and the tangled loyalties of kyroi, you will rise above it all, the glorious golden prince come back from the dead.”

Laurent closed his eyes, steeling himself. “I was not born to be king like you, Damianos.”

“No,” Damen agreed. “But you made yourself into one.”

“I wonder,” Laurent mused, “if mine is a better king than my uncle’s.”

“Your uncle is not a king, and never will be,” Damen said sharply. “And you will always be a far better man than him anyway.”

“It is not exactly difficult to be a better man than my uncle.” Laurent shivered. “And yet I do not know how you can say that, after the things I have done. After the things I have done to you, especially.”

Damen was quiet. Then he said, “Erasmus thought you were kind.”

Laurent exhaled. “Erasmus,” he said, “was a pet accustomed to indiscriminate violence, desperate for any shred of human decency he could find.”

“And you gave that to him,” Damen continued. “While you were out hunting with Torveld, Erasmus told me you spoke to him before the delegation. You warned him about Nicaise’s tricks with the fire. You told him something good would come of it if he was brave. You gave him hope, and you gave him a better life. _That_ was kind.”

 _No,_ Laurent thought. _I just told him what I wished someone could have told me five years ago._ But all he said was, “I’m certain you did not agree with his opinion of me.”

Damen walked across the cabin, and Laurent counted his footsteps. One, two, three. “I think our opinions of each other have evolved considerably since then. I…I do not wish to reverse that progress and relapse into scorn and loathing.” Four, five. “And I apologize for taking the Erinyes’s words to heart. I want to trust you, Laurent. I meant it when I said I did not think you would betray me as Jokaste did.”

Six, seven.

“But you think I would use you,” Laurent whispered. Damen was close. His back was still turned.

“I think,” Damen said carefully, “that you are conflicted, and still do not know exactly what you want.”

“Do you want me to say it?” Lauren snapped. “I want you, Damianos. That is all. Are you satisfied?”

Eight.

“No. There must be more to it than that.”

“Must there?” Laurent swallowed, because there must be, and there was, and once he realized this, the words spilled out in a frantic rush. “I hated you,” Laurent said. “I hated you so badly I thought I’d choke on it. If my uncle hadn’t stopped me, I would have killed you. And then you saved me, and every time I needed you, you were there, and I hated you for that, too.”

Nine. Damen’s heat was at his back, but he did not reach out, he did not move a muscle. Neither of them did.

“And now?”

Laurent shook his head tightly. “I told you I would give you Patran troops; it would be a fair trade or it would not be a trade at all,” he said. “I would not coerce you into such an alliance by seducing you. I am not certain I would even be able to seduce you if I did not care for you.” His breath whistled out through his teeth. “I…I am not some temptress or harlot who knows all the ways to make men bow to her will and give her whatever she pleases. If anything, you have been using me.”

A soft sound. “How so?”

“When you make love to me like that, I can’t think. I can’t…I don’t know how to – what to –”

Ten. Damen touched his hip, a warm, calming weight. “Then don’t think,” he breathed. “Don’t think, Laurent.”

“I never used you,” Laurent told him, breath shallowing as Damen’s lips pressed to the back of his neck. Unconsciously, he arched into Damen’s touch, into Damen’s hands and lips, and wondered when they had started feeling so familiar. Laurent turned slightly, looking up at him. “I never meant to –"

Damen’s expression derailed him, lips parted and eyes dilated, looking for all the world as if he wished to swallow Laurent whole. To have such desire directed at himself was dizzying, and when Damen whispered, “Can I kiss you?” Laurent could do nothing but let him, his lips opening easily under the press of Damen’s tongue.

It was somehow a relief to have Damen close again, and to know that this, whatever _this_ was, would not end. Not yet. For now, they were at sea, they were free, and home was on the horizon. 

*

It was odd to be in the company of other people again – their days in the jungle had somewhat dulled their sense of propriety, and though Laurent mourned the endless opportunities to press each other up against trees, he did not miss their leafy beds at all. He was also grateful for the bathtub a shy cabin boy dragged into their quarters later that day, stuttering that the captain thought the lady would appreciate it more than crew.

(Laurent did appreciate it, though he sometimes wished Damen would join him. It was a very small tub.)

There was of course the matter of having to wear a dress and pretend to be the demure Lady Laurel Delacroix, which was…not actually that difficult. It was a game, and Laurent played it as well as he did any other. Perhaps too well, if the frequent flush on Damen’s face was anything to go by. A flush that darkened whenever Laurent laughed and talked with the sailors, who were unsure what to make of him on the first night and utterly charmed by the third. He giggled and blushed at their crude jokes, oohed and aahed at their exaggerated stories of adventure, and took every clumsy compliment they gave him in stride. 

Laurent behaved as any plucky Veretian lady would when faced with a ship full of smitten sailors – with politeness and smugness in equal measure – but more often than not he would catch Damen looking at him from under dark lashes, lower lip caught between his teeth. The first time that happened, Laurent stuttered off into silence; the second time he tipped his head up and continued spinning stories of his own to the enraptured men, more boldly than before. This, too, was a game.

And Damen still, it seemed, did not like to share. 

Though they had made their amends that first day and it seemed Damen no longer had any qualms whatsoever about touching Laurent, Laurent did not allow anything beyond chaste caresses for the first week of their voyage. Due to the slower vessel and the longer route the voyage took longer than a week this time; the captain expected to reach Vere in twelve days or so. Laurent knew it was driving Damen quietly insane, but he also knew that Damen would never force himself upon him. So Damen endured Laurent’s torture, as Laurent had known he would. 

Meanwhile, Laurent’s chats with the sailors turned to outright flirting, so much so that several of them shot Damen wary looks and muttered amongst themselves about marital problems as Damen tried his best to ignore the whole thing. But Laurent would always turn the flirting back to him, making it impossible for Damen to disregard him, perching on his knee like he had in Artes as Damen’s prize. Sometimes he would drape an arm around Damen’s waist or neck, or drop a few pecks on his cheek, or simply shift around on Damen’s lap until Damen was gritting his teeth and hard in his breeches. 

But night after night, Laurent would deny him, rolling away from his grasping hands and falling asleep with a smug smile on his face as Damen simmered with frustration beside him. 

It was a little cruel. But it was a game, and if Damen won it, he would get a reward. He just had to make it until the end of the week. 

He almost did.

It was a cool, pleasant night, and they’d just supped with the crew as usual – a rowdy affair filled with good rum and salted pork (and some sweets for the lady, of course). Laurent, feeling stifled by the noise and the increasingly drunk sailors, had stolen away to the ship’s stern for some fresh air, leaning against the railing and watching the waves roll past, the Ellosean Sea a vast expanse of midnight water and silvery foam with no end in sight. When Laurent was not nude, seasick, and in a cage with his enemy belowdecks, the sea was somehow much easier to appreciate. One might even call it beautiful, in a dark, powerful sort of way. 

“Milady, there you are.”

Laurent turned slightly at the sound of slurred speech, raising his eyebrow at the man who stumbled up to the railing. The man was a rigger; though judging by his inability to stand properly Laurent doubted he would be able to do his job any time soon. “Hello, Jack,” he said, letting amusement color his voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jack stumbled forward a few more steps. “Well, milady – the boys and I, we was just wonderin’ – d’you ever mean anything by all the pretty things you says?”

“The pretty things I says?” Laurent repeated innocently. 

Jack looked uncomfortable, and scratched his grizzled beard. “Well, y’see, yer always complimentin’ and laughin’ and…well, forgive me for sayin’ so, but you don’t seem mighty interested in yer own husband, milady.”

Laurent tilted his head. “Ah,” he said. “Never fear, Jack. Damien and I are simply…going through a bit of a rough patch at the moment.”

“Uh-huh,” Jack said, edging unsubtly closer. “So, how, uh, how long’s this rough patch of yers gonna be, milady?”

Laurent smiled. “Not much longer, I expect.”

Jack stepped even closer. “You sure ‘bout that, milady? ‘Cause we sailors, we know a thing or two that lords like yours couldn’t even…couldn’t even _dream_ of.”

Laurent rolled his eyes. Jack was about to fall over. “Of course you do, but I suggest you save that for the tavern wenches, Jack –”

“What’s going on here?”

Damen’s voice boomed across the quarterdeck, sending Jack stumbling away and Laurent blinking in surprise as he stalked towards them, shoulders held stiff and jaw even more so. Jack held up his hands, mumbling as he backed away hurriedly. “Nothin’, nothin’, forgive me milady, must get back to the boys.” And he all but ran away, leaving Laurent standing alone with Damen glowering at him, patience worn thin, seconds from snapping. 

“I thought we agreed you weren’t using me,” Damen muttered, brows drawn together in hurt and confusion. Laurent wanted to reach out and smooth the line that had formed between them, but kept his hands gripping the railing, his body facing Damen’s. 

“Nothing happened,” Laurent said quietly. “Drunk men just do foolish things.”

“You aren’t drunk,” Damen replied, an edge to his voice, and Laurent realized – he had already snapped. 

“Damen –”

Then Damen was upon him, their chests touching, Laurent’s layers of skirts between them and yet he could still feel Damen against his thigh, pressing insistently, desperately, closer. Laurent sucked in a short, sharp breath. “Just let me touch you,” Damen pleaded, his voice utterly wrecked. “I just want –”

“Yes,” Laurent hissed, unable to play his own game any longer. Close enough, he conceded, tipping his head up towards Damen’s. “Take it, take what you want –”

Damen captured his lips with the fervor of a starving man, rough brown fingers sliding into Laurent’s hair, cupping the back of his head and kissing him with a sting of teeth, almost more like sparring than kissing. Laurent was not going to win this fight; he did not want to win this fight, so he just parted his lips and closed his eyes and wondered if kissing was always this good or if Damen was simply far too talented with his tongue for his own good. 

_That_ thought made Laurent moan, a sound he did not mean to make, but one that Damen echoed as he pulled back, a curl of dark hair falling into his warm eyes. Laurent gave into the impulse, reaching up and brushing it back. Damen caught his wrist, thumb stroking over the veins in his wrist, soft and reverential. Never breaking eye contact, Damen lifted his hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to each knuckle.

Laurent had not had a single drop of rum but felt suddenly unable to stand, swaying a little in Damen’s arms. 

“Laurent,” Damen murmured against the delicate skin of his wrist, saying his name like it was something precious, something special, and something he wanted very much. Laurent did not know it was possible to place such meaning into a single word, two syllables heavy with desire and fondness and awe all at once.

Laurent inhaled deeply, exhaled, steadying himself. When he spoke again his voice was as cool and level as usual, betraying nothing of his own feelings. “Go to the cabin,” Laurent said. “Do not wait up for me.”

Damen’s eyes flickered. “You expect me to _sleep_? Now?”

Laurent drew in another breath, and nodded. “Yes,” he said. Damen opened his mouth to object and Laurent lifted a finger, pressing it over his lips. “Do you trust me?”

It was a loaded question, a question that had been easy to answer three months ago, when the story of Damianos and Laurent had been a much simpler one. But now they were tangled, irrevocably interwoven; and that simplicity, that black and white enmity, was left shattered on the floors of the Artesian palace far behind them. 

“Yes,” Damen whispered, lips moving against his finger. He stepped back, and regarded Laurent thoughtfully. 

“Goodnight,” Laurent said.

Damen inclined his head as he turned on his heel. “Goodnight.” And then, with a last glance back, Damen returned to the main deck, weaving through the sailors and going up the stairs to their cabin. Laurent watched him go with a certain sense of disbelief and slumped back against the railing, skirts rustling. 

He stared up, up at the smiling sliver of moon, lifting his hand and studying the gold band glinting in the darkness. “What,” he wondered aloud, “have you gotten yourself into this time, Laurent?”

The moon smiled. Laurent turned his gaze once more to the sea, and waited. 

*

Half an hour or so had passed before Laurent returned to the cabin, finding the sailors far quieter than before as most of them drifted off in alcohol-induced slumber. Jack was among them, face down under the table, and that lightened Laurent’s mood a little as he ascended the stairs, focusing on keeping his breathing even. He did not knock on the door; Damen had left it unlocked, but Laurent locked it behind himself, the low _click_ filling him with a sense of finality. 

The lamp had been turned down but not out, and as promised Damen was asleep in the bed, on his back with one arm wrapped around Laurent’s pillow, the sheets thrown over his bare chest halfheartedly, leaving his clothed legs visible. Laurent tiptoed across the room, to the armoire, and picked up a bottle of oil, the one next to Vesta’s pin. It was the kind a Veretian woman might use to add a glow to her cheeks or a shine to her chest and smelled of roses, but Laurent thought it would do the trick.

Laurent set it down lightly on the bed, and then went about the arduous process of unlacing the gown. His fingers shook, the silence doing nothing to ease his tension, and it felt like a long time before the gown fell free of his shoulders and pooled at his feet in a purple pile of taffeta and silk. The undergarments were much easier to remove, but took more time because Laurent kept pausing, glancing at Damen and trying to remind himself that this was different, _he_ was different, and it would not be like it had been before. It would be better, it would be _good_ , even. 

Even with Damianos, it would be better. No. _Especially_ with Damianos. 

Laurent pulled the last lace free, and he stood bare before the bed. _I trust you._ It was a ridiculous, unbelievable statement, and yet Laurent knew it to be true with every fiber of his being; it echoed in his head with every pounding beat of his heart as he approached and climbed into the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. 

He took the bottle of oil, his palms clammy, and he felt clumsy as he straddled Damen’s hips. Under him, Damen made a sleepy sound, chest rising and falling, warm under Laurent’s fingertips. His lashes lay dark and long against his cheeks, his handsome face aglow in the dim lamplight. Laurent’s mind flashed unexpectedly to the memory of him after the lion attack, lying asleep on the cold stone slab and bathed in a similar light, as achingly beautiful as he was now though he had been on the threshold of death. 

But he was not dead. Auguste had not killed him. Kastor had not killed him. Laurent had not killed him. The Regent had not killed him. The lion had not killed him. The dragon had not killed him. Perhaps, Laurent thought hazily, he could not be killed at all; a young god of life and victory, worshipped by his people and respected by his enemies, meant to be showered in wine and flowers. 

But Damen was not a god. He was just a man. Knowing this, Laurent kissed him into consciousness. 

Damen awoke with a jolt, his hands instinctively going to Laurent’s hips before Laurent broke the kiss, looking down at him. Damen froze, eyes widening and gaining clarity, snatching his hands away and gaping at Laurent above him, making a sound like a breathless laugh. “You planned this all along, didn’t you?”

Laurent swallowed and licked his lips, pressing the bottle to Damen’s chest. “We have oil now,” was all he said.

Damen suddenly seemed to realize Laurent was fully naked atop him, hands cautiously returning to his hips as he shifted to sit up halfway, propped up by the pillows, making them eyelevel. Laurent had expected wavering and worrying. What he had not expected was for Damen to squeeze his hip and simply ask, “You want to?”

Laurent’s heart stuttered. “Yes,” he whispered, reaching out, letting his palms slide across Damen’s chest, reassuring himself that with him, Laurent could do as he wished. The gold ring winked in the warm light. “Fuck me.”

Perhaps his voice shook, because Damen’s hands on his hips loosened their grip, thumbs rubbing small circles into the hollows of his hipbones. Laurent shifted, unused to such attentions. “You want to ride me?” Damen murmured. “Like you said before, under the waterfall?”

Laurent’s skin flushed hot. “I want…I want whatever you want,” he replied, and Damen shuddered, pulling him down for another kiss. Laurent could feel Damen’s arousal in his breeches, half-hard cock snug against his own, which was only just showing signs of stirring. 

Damen noticed this, pausing and biting his lip. “Do you want me to suck you?” he asked, as if it was something easy. For him, it probably was. 

But Laurent shook his head. “I,” he started, and had to stop, to ground himself. “I will be fully roused by the time you are done with your fingers.”

Damen hesitated, glanced at the bottle of oil, and picked it up. Laurent’s thighs tightened around his hips. “If you ever need me to stop or slow down…”

In answer, Laurent rocked atop him, a slow, experimental grind that left Damen’s fingers digging into his waist sharply. “If you stop now, I will do it myself.”

Damen groaned, tugging Laurent closer, uncorking the bottle and messily pouring some onto his hand. Laurent was bizarrely calm as Damen urged him up, hand reaching between his thighs and fingertip nudging slickly at his hole. The angle let Laurent slide down on it quickly, perhaps too quickly, the stretch more than he had expected – Damen had large fingers, after all. 

Damen had large everything. 

Laurent braced his hands on Damen’s chest, and counted to five in his head to before nodding. With the second finger, his back arched and his cock twitched against Damen’s taut belly, filling out with every stroke of Damen’s fingers inside of him. Laurent bit back the sounds threatening to escape his lips, struggling to keep his breathing even and his vision clear. He had not…he had never imagined this would be so…

Damen added a third, and a dull ache came with it. Laurent’s hips bore down on his knuckles, wanting more, deeper, _now_. But Damen drew it out, perhaps to get back at Laurent for ignoring him for a whole week or perhaps just because he wanted to make sure he was ready. Laurent felt he had always been ready for this, and yet he would never be, fragments of the past threatening to override the present as Damen’s fingers spread him, curled in tight wet heat, pressed against a spot that made his nails dig into Damen’s chest, leaving ivory crescents in their wake.

Laurent’s head hung down against his own chest, hair hanging in his face. Now it was Damen’s turn to push his hair back, tucking it behind his ear and offering him a smile and a kiss, slow enough to make Laurent relax but messy enough to make his cock stiffen further. The ache from Damen’s fingers was fading, replaced by only the fullness and a desire for more – and that _more_ was still trapped in Damen’s breeches, which, Laurent said aloud without meaning to, was unacceptable. 

Damen chuckled, removing his fingers to unlace said breeches, leaving Laurent empty and wanting and shaking with nerves. And then Damen’s breeches were open and with some difficulty he managed to kick them off, and then they were both bare and Damen’s cock was pressing against him and Laurent, heart in his throat, froze.

Damen ran a hand up his arm gently. “Laurent,” he said, his tone neither pleading nor peeved, just quiet, patient. 

Laurent’s hands, braced on his chest, had curled into fists. Laurent uncurled them, and took a deep breath. “I want to,” he said in a low voice, reassuring both of them. “Just…slowly.” Damen lifted his hand, kissed it, and nodded. 

Damen poured more oil on his hands, biting his lip as he slicked himself up, and Laurent could feel it, the wide blunt head of his cock flush with Laurent, seeking entrance but not without invitation. Laurent shuffled forward, knees drawing further apart, watching Damen’s face as Laurent took ahold of his cock and guided it in.

It was more than fingers. It was more than anything Laurent had ever felt, but it was Damen, so Laurent took it. Took it all the way to the hilt, panting when Damen was fully seated within him, feeling Damen’s pulse beat with the frantic patter of his own as Laurent tightened around him and started to move.

Damen groaned, his face the definition of ecstasy, hands balling in the sheets. “Damen,” Laurent said, in a voice he did not recognize as his own, “Damen, touch me, you can touch me.”

Damen’s eyes flashed open, dark and wanting; and he did, he cupped Laurent’s hips not to guide him or to force him but just to touch him, to hold him. “You feel,” Damen said in Akielon, and groaned again, hands sliding down to squeeze Laurent’s ass, a tender gesture though it shouldn’t have been. “You feel so good, Laurent, talk to me, are you –”

“Yes,” Laurent gasped, hips rocking harder, driving Damen somehow deeper, a shock of pleasure up his spine and through his cock, nerves singing and head blurry with sensation and reactions he could no longer repress. His tongue did not know what to do, letting loose a stream of filthy Veretian words that made Damen buck up into him as Laurent was coming down, the resulting thrust making Laurent cry out loud enough to wake even the drunkest sailor. 

One of Damen’s hands found his cock, the gold ring cold against hot skin, and Laurent’s rhythm stuttered. Laurent tucked his face against his own shoulder as he fucked himself forward into Damen’s fist and back onto his cock, unable to do anything but move with Damen, faster and wilder, as if their bodies had been replaced by the sea itself, crashing waves and rolling surf. Or perhaps it was just Damen who had become the sea, and Laurent was but a ship, tossed helplessly through the sea’s storm, seconds from splintering and sinking. 

But the sea would not let him drown, and wrapped around him as he crested the wave, lips tasting of salt and rum, voice strong and soothing as the wind in his ear. Laurent let the waves take him in a sweet, breathless rush, moaning into Damen’s neck, smothering his sounds and hiding his face. But he could not hide his pleasure, his body shuddering and tightening as he spilled over Damen’s hand and belly. Laurent lay heavy atop him, trying and failing to sit back up. Damen, heart pounding against Laurent’s cheek and cock still hard inside of him, started to lift Laurent off.

“No,” Laurent breathed, raising his head and tugging at Damen’s unscarred shoulder. “Go on, you can, do it,” he urged, and Damen, wide-eyed, flipped their positions with ease, holding Laurent close to him as Laurent’s legs draped loosely over his waist, head tipping back against the pillows, offering himself up to the mercy of the waves.

And they were merciful. Damen moved in long, slow strokes; Laurent did not know how he managed to control himself so close to the edge but he did, pressing kisses to the line of Laurent’s throat whenever Laurent moved his own hips helpfully, shuddering at the oversensitivity yet never wanting it to end. But eventually it did, in a kiss that found his lips and a sudden spill of heat inside of him, feeling Damen tremble in his arms, coming apart and hiding not a single second of it.  
Laurent could not look away. 

He carefully schooled his features into a cool mask when Damen opened his eyes, though his nonchalance faltered when Damen nuzzled at his neck and smiled at him sleepily, so open and unguarded that Laurent was almost embarrassed for him. He stared up at him, eyebrow raised, and Damen chuckled and rolled off. 

They were both messy with Laurent’s release, and Laurent could feel a growing dampness between his thighs. It was instinctive when he rose from the bed, ignoring Damen’s curious gaze and going to the washbasin, grabbing a cloth and cleaning himself fastidiously, wishing Damen would look away. He got a clean cloth and turned back to the bed. Damen had closed his eyes and was a picture of complete and utter satisfaction, his lips curved up and his sated cock lying against his thigh. His cock, which had just been inside of Laurent, and which had left him with a growing ache as a lasting reminder of what they’d just done. 

Laurent waited for the regret and shame to find him; it did not. He approached Damen and was about to wipe off his stomach when Damen’s eyes fluttered open, bright with amusement. “Are you going to do that every time?” he asked.

Laurent sniffed. “You presume there will be another time.”

Damen’s face fell. He started to sit up, that little line appearing between his brows again. “Did I…did I hurt you?”

Laurent blinked, startled by the question. “No,” he said. In truth, he would feel it tomorrow, but that was not a bad thing. “You were very…attentive.” He paused. “Will you let me clean you off, or will I be forced to sleep in your filth for the remainder of the night?”

Damen relaxed slightly. “ _Your_ filth, technically,” he pointed out. “And it’s rather unfair to call it that; it’s not all bad.” To demonstrate, he swiped a finger through it and sucked it clean. 

Laurent flushed. “Are you going to lick all of it off?” he asked mildly.

Damen looked ready to accept the challenge. Laurent made a face and tossed the cloth at him, honestly too tired to do much more than accept Damen’s offered embrace and curl up to his side (once he was clean, of course). The lamp was sputtering; it would go out any minute now. Outside, the wind was picking up – a small storm, perhaps, but as the ship rocked Laurent felt invincible though he was still bare and sore and exhausted. It was a strange contradiction, but he felt as though he could take on the world as long as Damen was nestled up against him, lips pressed to his brow. 

“You did not presume incorrectly,” he whispered. “There will be another time, I hope.”

“I hope so, too.” Damen pulled the sheets up around them. Laurent could feel his smile against his skin. 

*

The last five days of the journey were a haze of what Laurent was tempted to call pleasant domesticity. He stopped his game with the sailors; Jack did not even dare to look in his general direction after the noises he must have heard from their cabin (not once, not twice, but three times). Damen, on the other hand, seemed unable to look at anything except Laurent. Laurent did not know what to make of it at all.

He knew things would be different when they arrived in Vere. They had agreed to travel together to Marlas where they would likely find Damen’s Delfeur kyros, Nikandros, whom Damen swore would ally with them. Laurent hoped he was right, because otherwise Patras was their only option, along with whichever Veretian troops would side with him. And Laurent had no doubt his uncle would do anything within his power to turn his own people against him. 

But for now, they had the advantage of surprise. The Regent and Kastor thought they were still enslaved in Arles, and everyone else thought they were dead. Coming back from the dead would create quite a stir, and they were counting on it. So Damen would hope for Nikandros and Laurent would hope for Patras and at least a couple provinces of Vere, and then…and then Laurent didn’t know what was going to happen. Before all of this, he had a plan, and then that had been torn to shreds by drugs and chains and Damianos. So there they were, relying on nothing but hope and the element of surprise. 

They docked in the border province of Arran. It was surreal to see Vere after what felt like an eternity away from home, and when they disembarked Laurent was struck by the strange urge to kiss the cobblestones. He did not; he was still proper Lady Laurel, after all – though, thankfully, not for much longer. 

A sailor helped them with their trunk as Damen hailed a carriage, which took them into the port’s village and to a cloth merchant who was more than happy to sell them ragged traveling clothes for a few gold coins. They sent the carriage on its way and, once they had traded their conspicuous nobility clothes for the inconspicuous worn ones, they persuaded a reluctant farmer to sell his plow horses in exchange for almost all the gold in the trunk. They kept a few gold pieces each along with the gold rings, but it was still more gold than the farmer had seen in his entire life. As he handed over the horses, two little girls ran out of the small house, eyes wide as they saw the glittering trunk and strange men. 

“Papa, what’s he doing with Apple and Rosie?” the older girl asked in thickly accented Veretian, squinting suspiciously at Damen.

“Hush, Marie,” the farmer muttered, ruffling her hair. “The nice men need good horses. They have given us enough coin to buy as many new horses as we want.”

The younger girl clung to the brown horse, Apple. “No! Find another horse!”

The farmer sighed and pulled her away. “You stop that, now, Melina. Run along to your ma, tell her the good news. Go on!” Melina shot a look of utter betrayal over her shoulder and dashed back to the house, blonde braids swinging behind her.

Laurent felt something tug at his cloak and looked down, startled, at the older girl. She stared at him with large blue eyes that glittered with determination. “Don’t you dare hurt them,” she said, small hand gripping his cloak tightly. “They’re good horses.”

The farmer made as if to drag her away but Laurent held up a hand, still looking down at the girl. “We won’t hurt them,” he said. 

“You promise?” Marie said suspiciously. “Pinky promise?”

The corner of Laurent’s mouth twitched. He held out his pinky to her solemnly. “Pinky promise.”

Marie smiled and twisted her tiny pinky around his before dashing off after her sister. 

The farmer thanked them and returned to his home. 

Damen was staring at Laurent as if he’d just done a circus trick. Laurent ignored him and swung himself up into Apple’s saddle, urging her on with a click of his tongue.

*

Arran’s forested landscape was familiar and comfortable for Laurent. Damen, however, was clearly looking forward to the open hills of Akielos. They rode for the rest of the day and most of the night, both of them filled with adrenaline now that they were so close to their goal. The horses were not quite as enthusiastic though, so they stopped once they reached a pond for the horses to drink from. Laurent estimated they were about half a day’s ride from Fortaine, and shortly after that, Marlas. He did not want to think about returning to Marlas with Damianos – he had not yet come to terms with it and was not sure if he ever truly would.

The forest here was very different from the Artesian jungles. It was quieter and safer and yet the stars above them were the same. Laurent stretched out on the sweet summer grass beside Damen, feeling suddenly awkward, off-balance. 

Then Damen said, “You’re still wearing the ring.”

Laurent stiffened, and turned his head to look at him. “So are you,” he said, a bit defensively.

The horses grazed where they were tied nearby, tails flicking with soft sounds that mingled with the songs of crickets and an owl hooting, far off. 

“Do you want me to take it off?” Damen countered. When Laurent did not answer, he added, “Think of it as a symbol of the continuation of our alliance.”

“I think of it,” Laurent gritted out, “as a symbol of marriage.”

“Or union.” His grin flashed in the darkness. “Union would be more accurate in our case.”

Laurent huffed out a laugh. “Sometimes I wonder if you think of anything other than fucking.”

Damen was quiet. “Sometimes I wonder if you think of it at all,” he murmured. 

Laurent blinked at the stars. “Sex?”

“No, unicorns,” Damen said sarcastically. “Yes, sex.”

Laurent shrugged equivocally. “Usually I think about unicorns more than sex.”

“Hm.” Damen glanced at him. “You were thinking about it on the ship, when you planned it all out that first time.”

Laurent bit his lip. “I was…thinking of it as more of a reward,” he admitted. “A reward for you, after a week of testing your patience.”

Damen frowned. “For me?” He rolled onto his side, scrutinizing Laurent. Laurent looked firmly at the stars. “So…you were thinking of it as a service, with no thought to your own pleasure?”

Sometimes Damen was too clever for his own good. “We are done with this conversation,” Laurent said. 

“No, wait. Sex shouldn’t be some trial you have to endure, Laurent. I don’t…I don’t ever want you to feel that it’s like that, with me.”

Laurent eyed him coolly. “No? You don’t want me to just roll over, spread my legs, and let you take me?”

“No,” Damen said earnestly, though his face was pink. “I meant what I said in the jungle – I want to give you pleasure. And I want you to give me pleasure, too – but not because you feel that you owe me anything.”

“I owe you many things,” Laurent muttered. 

“So pay me back with your troops and your alliance, I don’t care, just don’t do it in the bedroom.” Damen shook his head. “Don’t feel as if you owe me anything in the bedroom.”

“Or the forest?” Laurent said, voice coming out breathy and uneven. 

The tension shifted. Damen shifted closer. Laurent held himself very still. “Or the forest,” Damen confirmed.

Laurent hesitated, then rolled so that his back was facing Damen. “But I’m afraid I’m far too tired to do any more _strenuous_ activities tonight.” 

“Oh, of course, Your Highness,” Damen said. Laurent could practically hear the eyeroll. But, true to his word, Damen did not make any demands of him. 

Laurent owed Damen nothing in the bedroom. He…he liked that idea. He wanted to test it.

“It’s cold,” Laurent said. It was not freezing, but the air was chill enough to make goose bumps rise on his arms. “You’re warm.”

Damen made a soft sound, and after a long pause, one of his arms wrapped around Laurent’s waist, his body fitting against Laurent’s back. “Better?”

Laurent nestled back into him in reply, eyes already falling shut. Better.

*

Laurent awoke groggily to hot breath on his nape, and Damen unmistakably hard against the backs of his thighs. Judging from his slow pulse he was still asleep, and Laurent felt as though he would drift off again at any second, yet his own pants tightened as Damen rocked against him instinctively, lips hot as a brand on the back of his neck. Laurent grasped Damen’s hand, still draped over his hip, and squeezed. Damen awoke in stages, disoriented, but when he started to mumble an apology and pull back Laurent held him there, body arching back against his arousal. 

“If I don’t owe you anything, then give me this,” Laurent mumbled.

Damen shuddered, voice gravelly and sleep-slurred as he swore in Akielon. He pulled away for an agonizing moment, fumbling for something, and when it pressed coldly against Laurent’s ribs through the cloak he realized it was the oil. Damen had taken it with them from the ship. Laurent laughed, unable to help himself, and then Damen was helping him shove down his breeches and slick fingers were pressing in and Laurent wasn’t laughing anymore. 

He was stuck in a haze of sleep and sex that he had never felt before – it was not like being drugged, because it was pleasant and natural; the world was warm and fuzzy around the edges even as Damen worked the digits deeper inside of him and Laurent mumbled his acquiescence, making soft sounds when Damen palmed him through his pants, undoing the laces until Laurent filled his other hand. Laurent felt as if he might come at any moment, yet at the same time like he could fall asleep in seconds. 

Only when Damen entered him did he jolt awake a little, a spark of pain that quickly faded as he adjusted, his pliant body relaxing easily. Damen’s face was tucked against his shoulder, hips hitching with none of their usual finesse. Laurent didn’t care, tipping his head back and making incoherent noises as Damen stroked him faster, messier, the angle of Damen’s cock different than usual, shallower and driving him crazy. His hands tore at the grass without meaning to.

Their sounds were quiet, sighs and muffled moans, a soft, high keen as Damen’s messy thrusts found the spot that made Laurent’s cock jerk hard in his hand. Laurent was being louder than Damen, for once, unable to stifle himself and not particularly wanting to. Damen licked a line along the crease of his neck, kissing under his jaw and nuzzling at his hair, saying his name with that stupid Akielon pronunciation.

“ _Damen_ ,” Laurent gasped, and came all over Damen’s fist. Damen mumbled happily and came two seconds after with a low groan, wiping his hand off on the grass and slipping it under Laurent’s cloak, fingers splaying across his ribs, holding him.

Laurent almost wished Damen would just fall asleep like this, inside of him until daybreak, but Laurent felt him slip out and move away, cleaning Laurent off carefully. Laurent shifted and closed his eyes, the grass soft against his cheek, and drifted off.

*

It took Laurent a moment to realize why he was sore the next morning, but when he did he had difficulty looking at Damen. Laurent had been uninhibited, wanton, stripped of all his usual cool control simply because Damen had been having a very good dream. It was terribly embarrassing. 

But when Damen caught his eye he just smiled, nothing spiteful or mocking about it at all. “Sleep well?” he asked as they rode through the forest, the trees thinning out bit by bit.

Laurent gave him a look. “You would know,” he retorted. “What _were_ you dreaming about?”

Damen cleared his throat. “I, ah, believe it involved you and a throne.” He bit his lip. “It…might have also featured a chiton.”

“You,” Laurent repeated slowly, “had a dream about fucking me on a throne.”

“Well, no,” Damen said. “I was sucking you off while you sat on the throne.”

Laurent inhaled sharply and accidentally dug his heels into Apple’s sides, sending her into a confused half-trot. Laurent winced, and glared at him. Damen was grinning. 

“Whose throne was it?” Laurent asked, aiming for disinterested and missing by a mile.

Damen sobered, brow furrowing. “I don’t know,” he said after a beat. “It looked like a cross between the two.”

“Oh,” Laurent said. “That’s –”

A trumpet blared through the air. Rosie snorted, ears pricking, and Apple’s head turned curiously to the left. Laurent looked at Damen warily before dismounting and picking his way through the undergrowth, peering through the trees. Damen followed.

Fortaine was closer than he’d thought. 

The fort was located on a lightly wooded plain, and that plain was currently occupied by an army flying Vere’s sunburst, numbering in the thousands, bright tents pitched all around the fort and lines of horses and men drilling in the distance. Laurent’s jaw clenched. “It seems my uncle is waging war after all.”

But Damen shook his head. “They’re not planning on advancing anytime soon,” he said. “Those training areas and stables look rather permanent, and nobody seems to be in a hurry to leave.”

Laurent nodded slowly. “They’re not invading…yet.” He frowned. “They’re reinforcements. But for what?”

Damen touched his shoulder. “We will find out when we get to Marlas,” he assured. 

Laurent narrowed his eyes at the lounging army. His uncle’s machinations had already begun, he was certain of it.

*

They reached Marlas at noon. The Regent’s army was hidden from where the fort stood, tucked behind a hill several miles away. Fortaine was a menacing smudge on the horizon; Marlas was a beautiful stronghold of Veretian design and Akielon command looming before them. 

A lump formed in Laurent’s throat as they approached it – it looked the same, and yet the ground was no longer scarred and scattered with corpses, the air was not rancid with the smell of carrion and blood. Instead they found themselves riding through a lush field of long grass and thriving wildflowers whose fragrance attracted bees and butterflies by the dozens. 

The Artesian ruins which rose up out of the ground like jagged teeth around them took on new meaning, too. They were not the remnants of an empire long past. They were a reminder, a warning, of a great nation driven out by Akielos and Vere united. There was power in union. Laurent glanced at Damen, his chest tightening. Perhaps…perhaps such union might be possible again, for the sake of both countries. 

They continued on; Laurent could see archers on the walls and scouts at the towers. They, too, were prepared for war. A guard met them at the gates, in full Akielon armor, a sword at his hip. “State your business,” he demanded. It was jarring to hear someone other than Damen speaking Akielon.

Damen threw back his hood. “I wish to see Nikandros,” he said.

The guard scowled. “Do you, now?”

“We have no weapons, though you are free to search us,” Damen said. “I am an old friend, and he will want to see me.”

The guard muttered something over his shoulder. To Laurent’s relief, the gates opened, revealing the bustling interior of the fort. “Your horses,” he snapped. They dismounted. “Search them.”

Laurent, with gritted teeth, let a burly Akielon paw over him until he was satisfied. Next to him, Damen was practically vibrating with anticipation. 

“This way,” the two guards ordered as another soldier led the horses away. Laurent hoped his promise to Marie would not be broken. The guards led them up several sets of stairs, down a corridor, and into a long hall filled with what appeared to be military officers at ease, drinking and chatting together at a long table. 

As they entered, heads turned and a cautious silence fell. 

Damen pushed past the guards. “Old friend,” he said to the officer at the head of the table, who had risen to his feet, hand on his sword. “The last time we spoke, the apricots were in season. We walked in the night garden, and you took my arm and gave me counsel, and I did not listen.”

For a moment Laurent thought all was lost. Then the officer, Nikandros, swayed, gripping the table and staring at Damen as if seeing a ghost. “ _Damianos_ ,” he breathed, his chair scraping against the stones as he pushed it aside in his haste to reach them. “How…you are _alive_ , the King’s son is alive.”

Eyes widened and jaws dropped as recognition set in, other officers rising and gathering around them and then, without warning, all of them dropped to one knee before them, hands over their hearts. Nikandros, at Damen’s feet, looked up with shining eyes. “Exalted,” he whispered, voice shaking, breaking. His gaze flicked to Laurent, questioning. 

“Rise,” Damen said, and they did, the weight of his authority palpable. He gestured to Laurent. “Yes, I am Damianos, here to claim my throne and birthright from my usurping half-brother, who faked my death and sent me in chains to Vere. And this who I was sent to.” He inclined his head towards Laurent, encouraging.

Laurent felt small and out of place amidst the staring Akielons, but he held his head up high and said in the best Akielon he could muster, “I am Prince Laurent of Vere, here to claim my throne and birthright from my usurping uncle, the Regent, who also faked my death and sent the two of us in chains to a place he thought we would never escape from.”

Nikandros gaped at him, then at Damen. “Exalted,” he said slowly, “you…were his slave?” Louder, “ _You have served the Prince of Vere as a slave_.”

Damen hesitated. “Yes.” A murmur went through the room, uncertain, almost afraid. Their expressions were blatantly horrified, some even verging on nauseous, revolted at the thought of their king forced into submission by a Veretian prince. Akielos, with its honor and pride and dominance, could not stomach even the idea of Damianos serving him. It made him feel a little smug and a little stung all at once.

Laurent did not know quite why he said it. “And I was his slave when we were sent away by my uncle. Both of us were humiliated equally by those who now hold our thrones.”

Some of the horror lessened. Nikandros blinked at him, as if having difficulty imagining that – or maybe having no difficulty at all. The other officers eyed him speculatively – the idea of mutual disgrace was perhaps easier to bear. 

Damen nodded at him, grateful. “Kastor and the Regent are traitors to their countries who would tear both of them apart with war. We want our thrones, we want peace, and we want justice. Laurent has ties in Patras and I hoped I would find loyalty with Delpha’s troops, to achieve these goals.”

“You have our loyalty, Exalted, of course,” Nikandros said, his expression troubled. “But…Vere’s Regent is in Ios as we speak, holding peace talks with Kastor.”

Laurent’s blood ran cold. “They are not peace talks,” he snapped. “My uncle will gut Akielos from the inside out if these ‘talks’ are allowed to continue.”

Nikandros’s eyes narrowed. “Was that a threat?” 

Damen shook his head. “Go on, Laurent. What is he planning?”

Every officer’s eyes were on him. Laurent took a deep breath. “Did it seem strange to no one that immediately after Kastor took power, ambassadors from Vere arrived? Did it seem strange to no one that Kastor’s ascension was so easy in the first place? He did not overpower Damianos and his slaves with just palace guards. My uncle must have been assisting him from the very beginning. And why? As a gesture of goodwill?”

One of the officers, an older man with a beard, snorted. 

“No.” Laurent folded his arms. “My uncle is evidently not content with just Vere’s throne. He will promise peace, lie with every breath, and then betray Kastor as Kastor betrayed Damianos. Then he will storm Akielos with his army, which is camped just a few miles north, outside of Fortaine. Marlas will be the first to fall."

The room was an uproar of sound, of officers protesting the word of this upstart Veretian prince and others horrified by the possibility he was right. And it was all silenced by Damen’s raised hand. “Laurent is not often wrong about these things,” he said. “And what he says about the Regent’s army is true. We saw it while riding here.”

Nikandros paced. “We are aware of the army; but they swore they were there only as a precaution, as we are. If he speaks the truth…”

Damen looked at his friend grimly. “This army will need to be more than just a precaution. I fear he is right about all of it. The Regent is deceitful and honorless even for a Veretian.”

Laurent held his tongue even as Nikandros gave him that _look_ again, full of disbelief and disapproval. “And Prince Laurent is not?”

“He is my ally,” Damen told them. “I trust him with my life.”

Laurent tried to contain his surprise at that declaration, and mostly succeeded. The officers in the room, however, did not. Laurent knew these men did not trust him. But he also knew that they trusted Damen, and would obey their Exalted’s will even if it was to fight behind him and a Veretian. 

“I have vowed to help Damianos in the southern campaign with all of the resources at my disposal,” Laurent said coolly. “I have a military alliance with Prince Torveld of Patras and will likely have sway over some Veretian troops once the news that I am alive spreads.”

“Vere and Akielos,” Nikandros mused. “I did not think such an alliance possible until today.” He bowed his head to Damianos. “But I will follow you, Exalted. Meniados in Sicyon will likely pledge his troops to you too.”

The older bearded man also bowed his head, but not to Laurent. “And you have my soldiers, Exalted. But I expect this Veretian of yours to deliver as he says. Veretians are good at little else than _saying_ , in my experience.”

Damen smiled thinly. “I thank you, Makedon. I know your experience with Veretians has not been like mine. Not yet. But I also know you would do anything to prevent Akielos from falling into Veretian hands.”

Makedon raised an eyebrow. “Am I truly doing that if I ally with you, Exalted?”

A ripple of movement, doubt and some agreement. Damen did not back down an inch. “I was betrayed by my own brother,” Damen retorted. “He is not Veretian, but one of our own. Let it be known that my trust is not given freely after such treachery. I pity the man who betrays me now.”

Makedon lowered his eyes. “I would not betray you, Exalted. And if this Veretian has earned your trust…it must have been with good reason.”

“It was.”

Makedon bowed his head again. The rest of the officers followed. Laurent was dizzy. It had actually worked. Damen was a king, at least in the eyes of the men who stood before them. He had thousands under his command. His uncle was in Ios, with no idea that they were coming for him. Oh, he would find out eventually, but for now…

For now, they were a step ahead of him.

*

Damen met with Nikandros and Makedon for the rest of the afternoon, pouring over maps and drawing up what Laurent presumed were battle plans. Laurent was not invited – understandable, as he had no troops at the moment. So he wrote up a message for Torveld and a raven was sent to Bazal – two ravens, actually, just to be safe. Laurent also, after some dithering, sent a raven to Vannes in Arles. It was written in code, of course, he wasn’t an idiot, but he doubted anything would come of it. Vannes would help if she could, but with his uncle in power he did not know how much she could possibly do for him. 

And then there were the Vaskian tribes. Laurent did not know if what he had with them could be called an alliance – it was almost more of a friendship of sorts; an appreciation of cultures and ranks. A certain tribe led by a clanswoman named Halvik ranged in the forests and ravines just east of Acquitart, where he had spent a fair amount of time not so long ago. But he could not imagine them marching into battle with an Akielon and Patran regiment. They preferred a more guerilla style. Still, if he got desperate…

Laurent hated this; this uncertainty, this helplessness. He trusted Damen; he did. Damen was quite possibly the least deceptive person he’d ever met, and had proven himself to be a capable leader. But the reality of the situation was that Laurent found himself stuck in the Veretian fort Akielos had taken in the battle that led to Auguste’s death; and he was forced to rely on the command of the man who had killed him.

Auguste would have laughed if he could have seen him now. _Tying yourself in knots again as usual, little brother._

Laurent quickly decided he did not like Marlas. 

As the sun went down and Damen’s planning continued, Laurent found Apple and convinced the guards to let him out. Perhaps word had already gotten out that he was a figure of some importance, because they didn’t take much convincing. So Laurent rode, needing to be free of those walls and their ghosts. Yet he found himself riding into Delfeur, into where the brunt of the battle had been fought. To the ruins where Auguste had fallen; where Damianos had felled him.

Laurent’s face was wet. The world grew dark around him, and when the stars came out he reached the crumbling stone monument burned into his memory, a fragment of stairs green with moss, listing stone columns toppled every which way around it like the Prince’s Guard when they had fallen. Laurent tied Apple sloppily to one of the pillars, stroking her nose and leaning against her for a moment, pressing his face into her strong neck and letting the scent of horse and sweat drown out his grief.

Apple stomped at the ground, unsure of what to do with the creature clinging to her. Laurent retreated, wiping his face and coming to a stop at the stairs, climbing them unsteadily and sitting at the top of them, legs dangling over the edge. The field that lay before him was serene, silent. Laurent had expected he might cry here for what had been lost, but the tears never came, though the lump in his throat remained. 

“Auguste,” he said to the silent field, to the wildflowers that had grown from the graves of thousands. There was no answer. There was never any answer. Laurent lay down on the stone, curling to fit. It was cold, and yet a small red and black beetle climbed over his thumb where it rested on the mossy steps, tickling a path up his wrist until he brushed it off with a sigh.

The moon was waxing again, a silver sliver. Laurent did not know if the Artesian gods were real. Dragons were real, monsters were real, and faeries were real…at least in Artes. Here everything felt more mundane, less miraculous. But among the ruins of Artes Laurent felt closer to that fantastical, perilous world they had left behind. And if the gods were real, in some form…maybe there was a chance Auguste was not truly gone. 

Laurent had once prayed every night to whoever was out there to turn back time and kill Damianos instead of his brother. 

It just wasn’t fair. Maybe Damianos had not really gutted Auguste like a pig as Laurent had accused, but Auguste’s death had gutted _him_ , in more ways than Damen knew. In more ways than anyone knew. And maybe Laurent had made himself into a king but it was a king forged of resentment and retribution and only now was he beginning to realize that that was not the king he wanted to be. That was not the person he wanted to be, yet it was who he had irrevocably become. 

Laurent tried to imagine that other world he had spoken of in the jungle, a world where Damen and Auguste were friends and Damen courted him properly, and then the tears did come, sliding down his cheeks uncontrollably. He did not sob or wail or curse. He just wept – for what had been lost, and for what could have been. 

Auguste’s death was not Damianos’s fault. On the surface, yes, but in truth it was just the consequence of centuries of hatred; two nations opposed to each other in every way, warring at every chance they got, distrusting each other completely though they had no real reason to, seeing each other not as people but as enemies to be eliminated. So many had died on each side, and for what? A field of wildflowers and a tumble of ancient stones?

Laurent wiped his eyes again, drying them carefully, and sat up, looking down at the gold ring on his finger. Union. He did not know if that meant the same thing to him as it did to Damen.

Hoofbeats pierced the silence. Laurent tensed but did not turn, his dark cloak hiding him, his golden hair a beacon. It was a single rider; he knew who it was even before they dismounted and said, “I thought I might find you here.”

“You have found me,” Laurent said. “Congratulations.”

Damen paused before the stairs, Laurent could feel his uncertainty. “I…am sorry we are staying at Marlas. It would not have been my first choice either.”

“Why not?” Laurent asked. “The flowers are so nice.”

Damen sighed. “You know I regret what happened here, Laurent. I –”

“Regret is such a useless emotion,” Laurent interrupted. “It changes nothing.”

“I just wish I could change it,” Damen continued. “Is that useless, too?”

“At least we can have useless wishes together,” Laurent said. 

Damen’s uncertainty gave way to his boldness. He stepped forward, and sat beside Laurent, a few feet away. “We are taking Karthas tomorrow.”

“You are taking Karthas,” Laurent corrected. “I will do nothing but ride alongside you while your men insult me behind my back.”

“They are good men,” Damen started, and stopped. “They are used to fighting against Veretians, not with them. It will take time.” He looked at Laurent earnestly. “And you will take Karthas with me, troops or no.”

“Fine,” Laurent said. “Your word is my command, Exalted.”

Damen shifted closer. His tone changed, lips parting. “Were you crying?” he asked.

Laurent laughed, shivering and drawing his knees up to his chest. “Evidently I can hide nothing from you anymore.”

“I’m sorry, Laurent,” Damen said. “For what I did here. For what I did here to you.”

“Useless,” Laurent choked, turning his face away. “Save your apologies.”

“You were just a boy,” Damen whispered, and Laurent broke. 

A part of him wanted to scream, to throw something as hard as he could into that field of flowers, to ride as far and as fast away as possible, but instead he just crumpled to Damen’s side, as useless as Damen’s apology. Laurent still felt like he was just a boy, sometimes. Like he could never hold a candle to Auguste; like he was never meant to.

Damen said nothing, just wrapped an arm around his shoulders, hiding a kiss in his hair. Laurent took his hand, the gold rings clinking, warm between their shared palms. 

“We should go back,” Damen said after what felt like a long time. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Laurent replied. He did not say what for. The list was a long one, and they had both memorized its contents.

Damen shook his head. “Useless,” he repeated lightly, and Laurent found strange solace in that.

*

Late the next day, they took Karthas.

It was, for the most part, bloodless. Nikandros rode with Damen and Laurent to the gates, which were heavy and solid and far less decorated than those at Marlas. There was some confusion, but eventually Meniados and several generals emerged to greet them. The expression on the kyros’s face when he saw Damen and heard his name was one Laurent would not soon forget. 

After that, it was quite easy. Meniados pledged his support after Damen gave him an ultimatum with no room for disloyalty of any kind. Laurent suspected Delfeur’s army, stretching out behind them in a vast red wave, provided some much-needed encouragement. Nikandros slapped Meniados on the back companionably and whispered something in his ear that made him pale and start stuttering out something that made no sense.

“What was that?” Nikandros pressed. They were in Karthas’s officers’ hall, which was larger and simpler than the one at Marlas. “You _do_ have something you’re hiding from the King?”

Damen looked at him sharply. Meniados gulped. Laurent did not know how he had become kyros; he seemed a rather spineless man. “Yes, Exalted. Kastor…he entrusted me with something very dear to him about a month ago.” 

Damen waited.

“He…he entrusted me with Lady Jokaste and her son.”

Damen froze, staring at Meniados. “If this is some kind of trick…”

“No, no! No trick.” Meniados wet his lips. “I can take you to her at once, Exalted.”

“Do it,” Damen ordered, a wild look in his eyes that Laurent did not like at all. “Now.”

*

Lady Jokaste looked exactly as she had as an Erinyes – cold and cunning and beautiful. But also paler and more tired, with dark circles under her eyes and a squirming baby in her arms as they entered the royal suites. Laurent went in behind Damen, who had said nothing on the way there, and still said nothing now that he was face to face with the woman responsible for sending him to Laurent.

Laurent supposed in a twisted way he should thank her for that, but he did not. 

“Hello, Damianos.” Jokaste, the initial shock fading from her face, regarded him coolly, rocking the baby in her arms. “You think he’s yours,” she said. 

“He is,” Damen said. Behind them, in the hallway, Nikandros sucked in a sharp breath. Laurent’s own heart was pounding. A child. Damianos might have a child. Damianos might have an _heir_.

Jokaste laughed at him. “Still so naïve, Damianos. How can you still be so naïve, after all you’ve been through?” Her gaze moved past him, to Laurent. “Ah. Replaced me already, have you? I’m hurt.”

Laurent could feel Nikandros’s glare on the back of his neck. “As I am the Prince of Vere and not an adulterous courtesan, I would call it more of an improvement than a replacement.”

Her smile widened. “I see his type has not changed at all. So predictable, Damianos, although seeing you without chains is a bit of a surprise. You may say hello to your nephew, if you wish.”

“He’s my son,” Damen said, shaking his head. “You know he is, why deny it?”

Jokaste paused, and in that moment Laurent saw the truth in the thinning of her mouth and lowering of her brow, the flicker in her eyes. “Spin whatever lies you wish, Damianos. I am certain your Veretian whore has taught you well enough.”

Damen’s anger rose but Laurent saw him rein it in, controlling himself. Secretly, Laurent was proud. Perhaps he had taught Damen a few things.

“Does he have a name?” Damen asked. 

Jokaste looked down at the child, which gurgled and grabbed at her finger. “Yes,” she said. “Alexander Kallistos.”

It was a large name for such a small child, but Laurent saw Damen’s eyes soften, saw him step forward, saw Jokaste clutch the child to her breast, eyes narrowing. “He is not yours,” she repeated, with an edge of desperation. “Damianos –”

“Take the child,” Damen ordered. “Find its nurse; keep it close to the royal suites.”

The guards streamed into the room. Jokaste was white with fury. “You have become a cruel man indeed.”

“You deserve far worse for what you have done,” Damen told her as they pried the baby from her arms. “You took my freedom, dignity, and crown; I will take your son.”

Jokaste misunderstood, blanching and leaping to her feet, grabbing at the guards who had taken the baby. “No! Don’t hurt him! Don’t you dare, he is my son, he is the son of a king –”

“Jokaste,” Damen said, going towards her. She flinched back. “I give you my word that no harm will come to the child. Maybe Kastor would do such a thing, but I will not. I will raise him as my heir, without your twisted influences, and someday he may rule in my stead.” She blinked at him through strands of disheveled blonde, brows drawing together. “As I said, it is more than you deserve.”

And then, with the child in tow, Damen turned and left her, alone.

*

Under Damen’s orders, Lady Jokaste was relocated from the royal suites to the dungeons. Laurent supposed that should have been a relief. But as long as she was in the vicinity, Laurent found himself imagining all the different ways she could manipulate her way to freedom, all the ways she could hurt Damen all over again. But he suspected Damen was thinking very little of Jokaste at the moment, with the baby held gingerly in his arms. Its plump body was about the same size as one of Damen’s hands, head fitting easily in his palm. He stared at it with a mixture of astonishment and adoration. 

The nurse, who had at first protested letting him anywhere near the child, was sitting beside the crib across the room and watching Damen with a hint of a smile. Nikandros was there, too, hovering unsurely several feet away. Laurent, on the other hand, was as close as possible, close enough to reach out and touch the dark fuzz on the baby’s head. He did. Damen beamed at him. 

“I never thought I would have a child,” Damen said, half to himself. “Not yet, anyway.”

“You…are certain he is yours?” Nikandros asked, drawing closer. 

“Yes,” Damen said. “Yes, he is my blood. Even if…” He hesitated. “Even if he is Kastor’s son, he is still my blood. But look at him. He is not Kastor’s.”

Laurent looked. Alexander was a shade lighter than Damen, with large brown eyes that seemed to gaze at everything with innocent wonder, closing when Laurent touched his chubby cheek and he sneezed. There did seem to be something of Damen in him, in his grabby hands and dopey smile. Laurent told him this.

Damen laughed, and the baby laughed with him. “Do…do you want to hold him?” he asked Laurent. 

Nikandros glared daggers and folded his arms. Laurent opened his, and with care Damen placed the baby in them, a warm bundle of linens which Laurent kept close to his chest. The baby gurgled happily, reaching up to play with a strand of his hair. “He shares his father’s taste for blondes,” Laurent said dryly. Nikandros stopped glaring, and went to join them. The baby was quieting, yawning and closing its eyes. Laurent lowered his voice. “Did you mean what you said about making him your heir?”

“Yes,” Damen said. “A king needs an heir, and…I am not certain I will ever sire another child.” He glanced at Laurent. “Perhaps our children could be friends someday.”

Laurent would never sire a child. His family line would die with him. “Perhaps,” he said. Nikandros was looking at him, knowing, but Damen was oblivious, focused solely on Alexander. Laurent handed him back and rose, looking steadily at Nikandros. “It is growing late. I am going to retire.”

Nikandros caught his gaze and held it. “As am I,” he said.

Damen nodded absently. “Goodnight. Tomorrow we will announce our titles officially, Laurent. Let us hope Vere will rally behind you after your uncle’s treachery is exposed.”

“Let us hope,” Laurent said, and left with Nikandros.

They did not go to their quarters, but instead Laurent followed him up a flight of stairs and into one of the towers, which was empty and free from prying ears or eyes. Nikandros turned to him. “You have bedded him,” he accused. “You have bedded him and now he is as infatutated with you as he is with that baby.”

Laurent did not deny it. “If you fear a second Jokaste, I am happy to assure you that she and I are not as similar as we appear.”

“Enough evasion,” Nikandros snapped. “Damianos killed your brother at Marlas.”

“A troublesome fact we have both come to terms with,” Laurent replied coolly. 

“You spread your legs for your brother’s killer,” Nikandros reiterated.

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “How do you know I was the one spreading my legs?”

Nikandros blanched. “How _dare_ you –”

Laurent shrugged. “He was my slave,” he said. “And I was his. I do not expect you to understand what we went through.”

Nikandros faltered, turning to the window with slumped shoulders. “I know,” he said. “Damianos told me after the battleplans were made at Marlas. He told me to trust you.” Nikandros glanced back at him, mouth twisted. “He showed me the scars on his back. You nearly killed him. How can I trust you, knowing that?”

“I do not expect you to,” Laurent replied. “All I expect is for you to trust him.”

“To trust his judgment, you mean? Already I believe he has made an error.”

“With Jokaste,” Laurent agreed. Nikandros looked at him in surprise. “Yes. He has. She cannot be allowed to remain here, under the same roof as him.”

Nikandros gestured to the table. “Go on, Your Highness,” he said. “I’m listening.”

*

The next morning, Laurent visisted Jokaste alone. Damen had no idea he was there; he was either doting on Alexander or making battle plans with the kyroi or both.

Jokaste’s cell was almost as well-decorated as the royal suites, with a sofa, a washbasin, a goblet of wine, and several bowls of fruit. Another sign of Damen’s remaining sentiment towards her. Laurent was not jealous of that sentiment, but rather he recognized the danger in it. So did Nikandros.

“Oh, perfect,” Jokaste said as he entered. “Damianos has sent me his bed boy.”

Laurent leaned against the wall. “Damianos did not send me.”

Jokaste’s eyes flashed. “So the bed boy has a will of his own. How delightful. To what do I owe the honor?”

“You may front as much as you wish, but I know the truth,” he said.

Jokaste chuckled. “The truth? Please, enlighten me.”

“It is Damianos’s child,” Laurent said with surety.

Jokaste sneered. “Oh, is it? If so, it would hardly be a unique creature in this world. Damianos’s reputation is far different from yours, Ice Prince.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “I think you know as well as I that he has no other children. His reaction to the baby was hardly that of a man who has sired many of them.”

Jokaste hesitated, her gaze sliding past Laurent. “He is utterly besotted with it, isn’t he.” Her eyes narrowed. “A shame, as the babe is not _his_.”

Laurent knew she was bluffing. He had known from the start. “The child is his, and both you and Kastor know it. Otherwise, he would not have left you here in this far-off fort, guarded by half an army. He is not the son of a bastard. He is the son of a king. You said so yourself.”

Jokaste was very pale, the dark circles under her eyes more prominent than before. “What do you want me to say?” she gritted out. “Either way, Damianos will take the child from me to be his heir.”

“You betrayed him time and time again,” Laurent said, folding his arms. “The price of treason is death, not motherhood.”

Jokaste reclined on her sofa. “You truly think Damianos would have me killed? Don’t be a fool. We know him. We know that, when the time comes, he may not even be able to slay Kastor, because of his wretched familial sentimentality.”

Laurent tilted his head. “Such sentimentality is good for babies,” he said.

She turned away. “So you would take my newborn child and have me executed. It is good to know what kind of a ruler you are. Like uncle, like nephew.”

Laurent forced himself to breathe. In, out. In, out, slowly. “I am not here to sentence you to die,” he told her quietly.

Jokaste looked up, blonde curls falling across her brow, lips pursing in understanding. “Ah, but you _are_ here to sentence me.”

“Yes. Exile, I think,” Laurent said. 

Jokaste swallowed. “A child needs its mother,” she started.

“And a king needs an heir,” Laurent finished. “Besides, perhaps you should have thought of that before you traded your lover for his brother and sent him in chains to his enemies.”

“As if you have never done anything duplicitous or cruel,” she retorted sharply. “I am not blind. Damianos has new scars, all over his back, visible even through a chiton. Your doing, weren’t they?”

“Technically, I was not the one wielding the whip,” Laurent said coolly. “I just gave the command, and watched.”

“And yet he takes you to his bed,” Jokaste mused. “I wonder what events transpired between then and now to make him so fond of you. Or perhaps you just remind him of me.”

Laurent leaned against the wall. “Is that a note of jealousy I detect, Lady Jokaste?” He paused. “Damianos has a predilection towards blondes, it’s true. But unlike you, he trusts me.”

Jokaste’s cool expression faltered. “He would be a fool to trust either of us.”

“Yes,” Laurent agreed. “He would have you kept at Ios, perhaps imprisoned in lavish chambers for the rest of your days. But even birds in gilded cages become bitter and scheming over time. I will not give you another chance to deceive Damianos. So I have taken it upon myself to arrange for you to be delivered to someone capable of containing you and keeping you far, far away.”

Jokaste blanched then, her eyes widening slightly. “You would have me meet the same fate as Damianos?” She glowered at him. “I saved his life by making him a slave. You are ending mine by making me one.”

“You will not be a slave,” Laurent replied. “You will be an honored guest.”

“An honored guest in chains?”

Laurent shrugged. “If you insist on being difficult. If not, I think you will find it a far more pleasant place than you deserve.”

“Should I be bowing at your feet and kissing your boots to thank you for your clemency?” Jokaste drawled.

Laurent rolled his eyes. “We leave at sundown,” he said, and left.

*

At noon, Laurent stepped out onto Karthas's highest balcony with Damen, a gathered crowd of curious, murmuring Akielons gathered below them. The sun was high and bright, so many shielded their eyes, muttering about the heat and wondering what was so important to disrupt their rigorous drills and sparring.

Beside him, Damen stood in full regalia, dressed once more in Akielon armor, a red cloak pinned to his shoulder with the lion pin of his house and, on the other shoulder, with Vesta's pin, polished and shining. In comparison Laurent looked far less impressive, wearing a plain, tightly laced tunic and ecru breeches of a similar style. The choice was purposeful - he was about to be revealed as the Veretian Prince to an army of Akielons. Best to appear humble and subservient in their eyes, for now.

Damen reached out, not taking his hand but brushing it lightly, purposefully. "Are you ready?"

Was he, Laurent, Prince of Vere, ready to openly declare he was alive and had made an alliance with Damianos, Prince-killer, King of Akielos?

"Absolutely," he said. Damen smiled. The gold rings clinked.

Flanked by Nikandros, Makedon, and Meniados, they stepped forward together. Damen raised his hand to the crowd, his expression and posture already shifting, taking on an aura of power and command impossible to ignore. "Yesterday we marched from Marlas to take Karthas, under the guise of protecting Akielos's interior. Yet some of you have already heard the rumors, and questioned if you were following Kastor's orders at all - I tell you now, you are not. To follow his orders is treason."

Damen paused. The crowd shifted and stirred uneasily. "It is treason because I am Damianos, only son of Theomedes and King of Akielos."

For several minutes, the courtyard was overtaken by sound and shock. And then, as the officers had done, the chaos resolved itself in the bending of thousands of knees, in the bowing of thousands of heads, in the reverential murmurs of, “ _Damianos, Damianos, Exalted._ ”

Damen let it play out, and then let a hush fall as he raised his hand again, this time to Laurent. “And at my side, helping us regain our throne, is Prince Laurent, our brother of Vere.”

The hush grew tense, shocked but in a different way than before. Their suspicion poured off of them in waves, all of it directed at him, but Laurent remained impassive. As long as their kyroi stood alongside him, they would not dare openly reject Damen’s authority, or his alliances. Sure enough, the crowd settled; no weapons were drawn. They just listened, rapt, to their King as he continued, speaking of glory and conquest and honor and everything such men would want to hear. 

He did not speak of slavery, of fighting pits and chains and drugged hazes; he did not speak of a lost empire or an Empress craving vengeance or a cave beside the sea. He did not speak of dragons or jungles or faeries. He spoke of war, and peace, and victory. He spoke of forging a new future with a more powerful Akielos; he spoke of common goals and common enemies; he spoke of union in the face of unrightful rulers who sought to tear both countries apart. He spoke as a King spoke, with passion and persuasion and the promise of greatness in exchange for their loyalty.

Halfway through, Laurent knew Damianos already had that loyalty; he had had it the second he stepped out onto the balcony. 

_I would follow him,_ Laurent thought as Damen spun soliloquies and battle cries all at once to a crowd that cheered with every word. _I would serve him._ It was a revelation, but not a surprising one. 

When Damen had finished, Laurent said a few careful, cliché words about setting aside differences and fighting for justice. Damen echoed them, the soldiers cheered. Damen told them they would march for Ios within the next moon, and the two of them left the balcony amidst the joyful roar of the crowd.

Laurent was glad to be out of the sun and the center of attention, and narrowly escaped Makedon’s invitation to everyone to join him in a round of drinks at the generals’ barracks. He took the stairs two at a time, brushing past several startled servants as he whirled around a corner and started a new flight of stairs, up to the rookery.

He had the ridiculous urge to run, away from Karthas, away from Akielos, away from Damianos. Or perhaps to fly. He reached the top of the stairs and the raucous calls of ravens greeted him, shuffling around on their perches and eyeing him with cocked heads and beady black eyes. One of the scribes, sitting at a table littered in parchment and quills and raven feathers, looked up and almost knocked over his inkwell.

“Oh! Sir! Highness, I mean. Your Highness. You received replies from those messages you sent at Marlas, and the one you sent yesterday.”

Laurent started forward eagerly. “Yes? Where?” The man hastily pushed some papers aside and emerged victorious with three small scrolls, which he handed over. One was sealed with the Patran coat of arms, one with only a small blue glob of wax, and the other was tied shut with catgut.

“Thank you,” Laurent said, wishing he could stay in the rookery to read them but not trusting the curiosity in the scribe’s eyes. A raven squawked at him as he left, ruffling its feathers. One of them fluttered to land at his feet, and he picked it up, tucking it absently in his pocket as he descended the stairs.

*

Back in the Queen’s suite (he’d been given Jokaste’s old quarters while Damen was given the King’s), Laurent sat and read the replies, heart pounding as he broke Torveld’s seal and unrolled the scroll with baited breath. 

_Prince Laurent of Vere and Acquitart –_

_The news of your return from the dead brings us great joy here in Patras. As previously agreed, we are in accord that you are the rightful heir, and will give you the military support you require. A third of the Patran army is en route to Sicyon to assist you and King Damianos in the southern campaign._

_\- Prince Torveld of Patras_

_P.S. Erasmus is doing well._

Laurent leaned back in his chair, exhaling in absolute relief. When this was all over, if Laurent survived it, he was going to throw a feast in Torveld’s honor. 

The second scroll was more ominous. The blue wax crumbled in his hands. It was short, in code, and to the point. Laurent took a little while to decode it – Vannes had taken no chances, it seemed – but was not disappointed when he did. 

_L—_

_Council divided. The people mourn you. Regent’s troops at Fortaine. Others liable to defect. General Enguerran of Ravenel defected to you already. You will have your army in a week. Good luck. Nicaise misses you._

_\- V_

_P.S. I miss you. Don’t you dare die again._

Laurent said a silent prayer of thanks to whoever was listening, because at this rate, he figured there had to be someone.

The third one was less of a mystery. He untied it, and found it written in messily scrawled block letters.

_We will take her._

The door swung open and he hurriedly shoved the scrolls away, only to pause when Damen walked in, taking in his flustered appearance with a raised eyebrow. “Is everything alright?”

“I have an army,” Laurent said, breathless. “Patras and Ravenel’s troops will be here within the week.”

“I didn’t doubt you for a second,” Damen said, grinning so hard Laurent thought his face would split. “Laurent. This is going to work. We are going to w –”

“No.” Laurent looked at him sharply. “We cannot get ahead of ourselves. My uncle is sure to have more tricks up his sleeve, and he will use as many as he can before this is over.” Laurent rose from the chair, standing in front of Damen, close enough to kiss. But he did not. “I’m not going to let my uncle hurt you,” he said. “I promise.”

“Us,” Damen corrected, soft. “We’re not going to let him hurt us.”

Laurent shivered. He could not promise that. But he nodded, and let Damen enfold him in an embrace which he returned stiffly, head pillowed against Damen’s chest. Damen smelled of milk and soap. Laurent raised his head. “Did you decide to babysit instead of drink Makedon’s griva?”

Damen scrunched up his nose. “I would choose babysitting over drinking that swill any day.” They chuckled together. Laurent wondered if he would ever get used to these easy exchanges, these easy touches between them. Damen exhaled, breath ruffling his hair. “Do you think I made a mistake in taking the child from Jokaste?”

Laurent pulled back. “I think you made a mistake in allowing her to remain here,” he said.

Damen rubbed his temple. “Maybe. But I can hardly have her hanged in the courtyard.”

“There are other ways to remove people,” Laurent said lightly, and left it at that.

Damen sighed. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had listened to Nikandros’s advice and seen my family’s betrayal for what it was. You would have.”

“Yes,” Laurent agreed. “But in the end, that did not save me, did it?”

“You’re still here,” Damen pointed out.

“We both are.” Laurent did not know how, but they were. He closed the space between them and kissed Damen soundly. “We’re both still here.”

*

At dusk, Nikandros met him at the gates with Jokaste in the saddle behind him, cloaked to hide her telltale hair and face. Her wrists were bound and she was gagged, which Laurent almost felt bad for, but then he imagined Damen struggling against chains and a slave muzzle and all the sympathy dried up abruptly. 

“Has she given you any trouble?” Laurent asked, reining Apple in alongside them. Jokaste’s head jerked towards the sound, but stayed down. 

Nikandros rolled his eyes. “You mean other than the usual spiel of trying to seduce me and spinning lies about Damen? No, not really.”

“Good.” Laurent looked out at the eastern hills. “Stay close. And if they surround us, do not panic.” He drove his heels into Apple’s sides and started off at a fast canter, Karthas. 

“That’s comforting,” Nikandros said, spurring his horse on after Laurent. 

They rode for an hour or two before Laurent heard the hoofbeats. Nikandros tensed, but Laurent shook his head. “It’s them. They will blindfold us. As I said, do not panic.”

Nikandros gaped at him. “Blindfold – ? I thought _she_ was the prisoner.”

“They are very,” Laurent paused. “Private.”

Jokaste made a sound that could have been laughter or cursing.

Out of the darkness, a horde of horses and women emerged, circling around them like hounds on a hunt. At the head was Halvik, atop a massive black charger which approached him with a toss of its head. Apple shifted nervously. “You have brought her?” Halvik asked, tilting her head. 

She had sharp black eyes and sleek black hair, not unlike the ravens back at Karthas. Her face was streaked with red paint or blood, and her shoulders were covered with a heavy fur cloak, adding to her wild, regal air. Nikandros was staring at her and the other women helplessly. Jokaste was squirming.

Laurent pointed. “Yes. Thank you for accepting my request.”

Halvik inclined her head. “Yes. Thank you for accepting mine. The Akielon has the size to breed great warriors, as you said.”

Nikandros whipped around to face Laurent. “ _Excuse_ me?”

Laurent waved a hand at him as he guided Apple back around the way they’d come. “You may thank me later. I will see you in the morning, Nikandros. And I will see you never, Jokaste.”

Halvik inclined her head. Laurent rode once more to Karthas.

*

The fort was eerily silent when he arrived, slipping in through the stables and handing the exhausted Apple over to a drowsy groom. His own body had grown accustomed to long days of riding, so he ascended the stairs to the royal suites without difficulty, though a bit slower than usual. Only a few wall sconces were lit, casting long, flickering shadows across the old stones, and all the servants and slaves had long since retired. 

On the way, Laurent passed a mosaic – two great warriors facing each other, one in white and one in black, each with the other’s sword impaled in their chest. It was poor subject matter for a mosaic. Laurent hurried past it. 

When he reached the royal suites they were similarly silent, except for the two guards posted at Damen’s door. Laurent repressed a sigh – he had been considering joining Damen in bed, but had little desire to share that with the guards. Reluctantly, he went to his own door.

He never made it inside.

The guards, to their credit, moved very quickly, one grabbing him from behind and the other slapping a hand over his mouth, muffling his surprised cry. They were armed, a dagger jabbed warningly into his lower back, forcing him away from the suites and further down the hall, headed out onto the ramparts. Laurent’s exhausted mind was working feverishly. They meant to kill him. And if they managed to get him onto the ramparts, they would. 

With little thought to anything except survival, Laurent bit down as hard as he could on the guard’s palm, and screamed at the top of his lungs. Perhaps it was not a shining example of his problem solving skills, but it did the trick. Just as the guards raised the dagger to his neck to finish the job, Damen’s door flew open. 

The flat of the blade slipped a little against his throat. Damen’s sleepy expression sharpened in half a second as he took in the scene before him. Other guards were coming to investigate the sound, freezing halfway down the hall. 

“Let go of him,” Damen said, low and dangerous and _furious_.

One of the guards backed away right away, but unfortunately it was not the one holding the dagger. Laurent was breathing shallowly; one of his arms twisted behind his back with the man’s other hand. “Exalted,” the guard said, “this Veretian snake has no place with you.”

“You have no place to say that,” Damen retorted, voice rising in volume. “Do you dare defy your King? Release him or I will cut your hands off.”

The blade pressed in a little. Laurent’s breathing stuttered. “Exalted, please, listen to me. He will betray you; he is honorless and selfish and treasonous –”

“The only treasonous one here is you,” Damen snarled, and then, to the other guards, “Seize them.” 

The guard made as if to slice the dagger across Laurent’s throat. Laurent jabbed his elbow backwards into the guard’s gut, and the dagger clattered to the stones, sending Laurent stumbling forward into Damen’s arms. The guards surrounded the traitor and the coward, swords drawn. The traitor looked at Damen and shook his head. “You will bring Akielos to ruin.”

“No, but you almost did,” Damen told him, voice trembling with anger. “This ‘Veretian snake’ is supplying more than half of our troops. The campaign to retake Akielos would not be possible without him.” The guard blanched. “Take them to the dungeon,” Damen ordered. “They will be executed tomorrow.”

The guards led them away.

Damen turned to Laurent, his grip almost bruising on Laurent’s shoulders. “Did they hurt –”

“No,” Laurent whispered. “No.”

Damen shivered; his body still tense and taut with rage and fear. “I will make certain everyone knows what that man tried to do, and sees what happens to him. It will not happen again. I will not let it.”

Their hearts pounded together, fading adrenaline replaced by something else.

“Take me to bed,” Laurent whispered. “Take me to bed, Damianos.”

Damen shivered again, and nodded. “Yes,” he said.

*

Damen had him pinned against the sheets in two seconds flat; Laurent couldn’t move an inch even if he’d wanted to. Damen was hard and huge against his thigh, their bare bodies already soaked in sweat, making the slide between them almost too easy, Laurent’s cock trapped between their taut bellies. Damen’s large hands slid over his body, restless, desperate, possessive, and when Damen’s teeth found Laurent’s neck he let out an involuntary whimper, arching up into it, Damen’s mouth working against the sensitive skin, leaving a mark, claiming him. 

“You’re mine,” Damen growled harshly against his ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “You’re mine and I won’t let anyone touch you, I won’t let anyone hurt you.” They shuddered in tandem, overwhelmed. Laurent wrapped his arms around Damen’s back, holding him there, feeling the scars under his palms and wondering for the thousandth time how he was allowed to have this.

“I know,” Laurent replied, softer. “I know, you’re mine, I’m yours, _kiss me_.”

Damen did, muscles rolling under the scars, such strength and power and it was all Laurent’s; he could feel it in the firm, deep kiss Damen gave him, feel the promise in his tongue against Laurent’s, the groan that rumbled in his throat as he pressed Laurent down harder against the sheets. And he could hear that promise when Damen pulled back, breath hot against his cheek. 

“I want to kill anyone who has ever hurt you,” he whispered, his tone a tender antithesis to the violence of his words. 

Laurent shivered, hand sliding up and over Damen’s neck, through his hair, Damen’s head bowing for him in a way that made Laurent faint with arousal. “You hurt me,” he said, quiet. “You hurt me, Damianos.”

“I know.” Damen raised his head slightly, bright eyes fixed on Laurent through the dark tangles of his hair. “I’m so sorry,” he said. His lids lowered. “So, so sorry.”

“Prove it,” Laurent dared, his grip on Damen’s shoulders bruising. “Prove it, Damianos.”

Damen’s hips thrust against him, uncontrollable, and Laurent spread his legs like a challenge. “Fuck me,” Laurent ordered, biting the shell of Damen’s ear. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

“I always mean it,” Damen groaned. “Laurent –”

“You don’t,” Laurent breathed, “always have to be so gentle.” Damen stilled. “I am not fragile. I will not break. You will not hurt me.”

Damen looked at him. “But if I do –”

“I will tell you, yes, now _get on with it_ ,” Laurent growled. “I’m yours? I don’t believe you. Make me.”

When Damen flipped him in a single smooth motion, Laurent grunted, landing face-first on the pillow and breathing hard, shoving his hips up, presenting. He’d never thought he would want it like this, pinned and controlled, but with every movement of Damen against him another new pulse of dizzying desire went through him, his cock hard and full against his belly, pressed to the sheets. 

Damen held his hips, squeezing his ass and sucking a mark into it savagely, his own hips rocking all the while against the back of Laurent’s thighs. “Mine,” he said, his voice echoing through the room. “Say it.”

Laurent wet his lips. “I still don’t believe you,” he said.

Damen’s hands smoothed over his hips, his sides, his back, one dipping below and closing around his cock, enveloping him in a warm, calloused grip. Laurent’s hips jerked, but Damen stopped them with one hand, holding him in place. His lips slid across the back of Laurent’s neck. “Don’t come,” he murmured, “until I let you.” It was a suggestion, not a command, and Damen waited for his answer.

Laurent’s heart was going to pound out of his chest, but he nodded shakily, already feeling so drawn out he was sure he would snap at any moment. Damen’s soft kiss to his shoulder blade helped, grounding him as Damen sat back to get the oil, spilling the vial onto his fingers and pressing two fingers into Laurent without further warning. Laurent panted into the pillow, shoving his hips back onto the digits, feeling oil trickle down the insides of his thighs and imagining it was Damen’s come. That was too much; his cock gave a sweet, hard kick at the thought, dribbling slickness onto the sheets. 

“Are you deaf?” Laurent snarled. “I said _fuck me_ , not prepare me.”

Damen groaned. “Are you sure –”

“Yes, now, do it now, I need you inside of me,” Laurent hissed, twisting in his arms, grinding back against his cock, fully primed and nudging at his hole. Damen hesitated a moment longer, and then, _yes_ , then he was pressing in, the stretch verging on too much, Laurent’s cry muffled in the pillow as Damen’s cock breached him. He trembled when Damen filled him in a single hard thrust, holding Laurent’s hips and setting a pace that was slow but deep enough to shake Laurent to his core, breaths and words tangling in his throat uselessly. 

“Laurent,” Damen was saying, cock driving deeper and glancing off the spot that made Laurent see stars, angling his hips to hit it again, and again, and again. “Laurent, breathe.” He sounded like he was having difficulty breathing, himself.

Laurent moaned in reply, his eyes half-lidded when Damen slowed to brush the hair back from his face, running his thumb over Laurent’s cheekbone, over his wet lips. Laurent looked up at him dazedly. He was radiant in the dimness, a god in his own right; a king mounting another king with all his strength – not to conquer but to _claim_. “Damianos,” he said, and for the first time it did not sound like an insult but rather an endearment; not an enemy’s name but a lover’s. 

Damen closed his eyes, lost to sensation, lips parted as his hips moved faster, the bed creaking under them. Damen fucked him harder and Laurent arched back into it, hands clawing at the sheets and cock hanging heavy between his legs as Damen wrenched his hips up into his lap.

Then Damen’s hand was on his chest and he was wrenching Laurent up, too, so that his back was flush to Damen’s chest and his ass was flush with Damen’s balls, heavy and hot against his own. The sudden change in angle had Laurent whimpering and squirming, feeling Damen’s cock swell inside of him with the promise of release. His own cock jutted out from between his obscenely spread legs, and when Damen’s hand covered it Laurent could do nothing but moan and fall back against him, head lolling on Damen’s shoulder. Sloppily, he kissed Damen’s neck, savoring the patter of Damen’s pulse under his lips. 

Damen squeezed his cock, thumb swiping roughly over the head. “Mine.”

Laurent’s arousal crested; Damen filled him and surrounded him and he did not want to be anywhere else. “Yours,” he agreed in Akielon, and Damen clutched at him, spilling deep inside with that now-familiar heat, filling Laurent even more. Laurent expected him to pull out but he did not, Damen’s cock softening but still heavy and wide and wet inside of him. Laurent was still hard.

“You are incredible,” Damen murmured, nosing at his jaw, stroking him gently. “I would stay inside of you all night if I could.”

Laurent shifted, Damen’s cock twitched hopefully inside of him and he swore. “You Akielons really are beasts,” he gasped. “Do you fancy yourself an alpha wolf?”

Damen chuckled, the motion making Laurent shudder and tighten around him. “You wish,” he said. 

“What I wish,” Laurent gritted out, “is that you would let me come already.”

Damen paused, as if he had forgotten that particular condition. “Oh – you actually – _Laurent_ ,” he moaned, and then Laurent was lifted up and off, startlingly empty as Damen rolled him over and pressed him down against the sheets, kissing him messy and open-mouthed, just as much of a claiming as the fucking, his hand firm and sure around Laurent’s cock, twisting and stroking as Laurent chased his own climax, breaking away to gasp Damen’s name as he reached it, vision whiting out around the edges and body awash with pleasure. 

Damen stayed close when he was done, and Laurent was glad for it. Once, he would have needed space, separation, but now he wanted nothing except Damen atop him, under him, beside him – he wanted everything and anything with him and Laurent laughed aloud at the realization.

Damen hummed and touched his face, questioning. 

_I love you_ , Laurent thought helplessly, though he did not say it. Instead he said, “I am yours, Damianos.” In his mind, it meant the same thing.

Perhaps it did to Damen too, because he leaned down and kissed Laurent’s sweaty brow, and Laurent felt his smile against his skin. 

In the morning they would be faced with the tangled web of war and politics, and the struggle to ascend to their thrones and return home. 

But for now, in Damen’s arms, Laurent could almost imagine they were already there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD! I have no self control! This chapter is a whopping 24.5k and I swear I am not usually like this, but there you go. So much to write, so little time. And I have an essay due at midnight, so I should probably get on that. RIP me.
> 
> But I did it. I finished this ridiculous little idea that turned into THIS monster. I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. I know some of you might not be satisfied with the ending, but hey, I figured we know how it ends, so why bother? This is the end of this version of the story, a version where some very rough times made the two of them have a different dynamic and relationship than they did in the books (although still a believable one, I hope). I'm so very glad I was able to explore this AU with you all; thank you so much.
> 
> And thank you a million times over for your comments! I will (finally) be replying to all the comments on this last chapter, thank you to all my sweet, lovely commenters who made my day time and time again.
> 
> (this will likely not be my last cap prince fic, as I am trapped in this hell forever! over the summer I am planning on writing a goose girl au, which I suggested on my tumblr, @elfyecho, and which piqued a lot of interest! so watch out for that.)
> 
> (& yes, Nicaise lives in this AU because I am forever bitter about him dying. @pacat, that was unnecessary.)


	9. Art/Extras!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I usually doodle at least a couple of drawings for the stories I write; Wine and Flowers had quite a lot of them! I thought I'd share with you guys to celebrate 350+ kudos (which is fantastic, thank you!), so here's some scribbly art of your two favorite princes.
> 
> Look for the Goose Girl AU later this week, the title is Those Who Speak with Wild Beasts! So excited to share it with you all.

a messy lil watercolor of damen and laurent riding to the lupercalia festival

  
space? parties? fun times.

  
_“I’m ashamed to say,” he whispered, “that I have fallen for him, completely and irrevocably.”  
Damen’s gaze cut into him, sharp as the edge of a sword._

  
Damen and the baby!

  
Laurent is not a huge fan of pretending to be a pet and letting that sweaty Akielon paw all over him. (but let's face it; secretly, he totally likes it)

  
Damen is not a huge fan of pretending to be a Veretian lord and letting that conniving Veretian paw all over him. (but let's face it; he loves it.)

The Empress is honestly my fav. (ft. the Regent who is nobody's fav.)

The ill-fated bear and Kakios + injured Damen??

  
Damen + Laurent in the forest with the Erinyes version of Jokaste + Auguste.  
  
The dragon. Holy shit I love dragons.  
  
Laurent + Damen on the dragon ft. my math homework. Laurent was supposed to be throwing up a middle finger but I really needed a good grade in that class.  
  
Laurent being beautiful + Laurent as a pet. I don't know why he has chains?? Aesthetic, I guess.

Nicaise bein' cute and Not-Nicaise creepin' on Damen and Laurent through the flowers.

  
Oh boy, the monster from the jungle. At one point, I planned to have Damen and Laurent actually get captured by the monster (who can imitate other people's voices and read people's minds). I named it the Oracle, and it was loosely based off of a naga (a creature with the lower half of a snake). The Oracle has no face but has snake-like slits that give it a great sense of smell, and it has a powerful neurotoxin in its fangs and back spikes which can paralyze even a big dude like Damen in thirty seconds flat. In that version, the Oracle brought them to its spooky lair and built up a pyre to roast them on (because it's not a savage who eats raw meat, cmon) one at a time, as promised. It chose to kill Damen first, and Laurent was freaking out, at this point his composure would have slipped and he's babbling and getting progressively more upset while Damen is (unsuccessfully) trying to calm him down and the Oracle is taunting him. This is where details started to get hazy; I was toying with the idea of either Selene coming to the rescue, Damen surviving the fire thanks to Vesta and pushing the Oracle onto the fire, or the Oracle revealing to Damen that Laurent was molested by the Regent and Damen's anger giving him enough strength to overpower it. So this bit never made the final cut.

Selene + Vesta, my girls!! Originally, they were going to actually be in the story as concrete characters guiding Laurent and Damen through the jungle or smth, but I ultimately decided there was enough going on as it was and made it more up in the air as to whether or not they really existed.

Thank you again for all of your support throughout this story. Much love,

-Elena/magisterpavus


End file.
